KNOT OF THE SLAIN
Blood Angles
Part One
TWISTED
by
T. C. Archer
Ice cold veins on a
river of fire...
For Gerald Forstner,
veteran detective, son of a cop, cult hunter, and divorced dad, the face of
Miami changes when he must solve a series of murders eerily reminiscent of his
first case as head of Miami’s Serial Killer Task Force.
When Gerry is inexplicably healed of a mortal stab wound by a beautiful blonde
murder suspect, he questions his sanity and wisdom in remaining on the force.
Discovery of Icelandic artifacts that document immortal priests and female
assassins breaks the case wide open. The case, however, becomes personal when
each murderer becomes the next victim in a chain that links directly to his
son.
A
jolt of awareness raced up homicide detective Gerry Forstner's back. He jerked
his gaze from the long line of people waiting to enter Miami’s premier club, The Hot Spot, past the full parking lot
to the darkness beyond. The only other time he had experienced that same someone just walked over my grave
feeling had been during the Keepers of
the Secret investigation.
Memory
of the case returned with a vividness that belied the five years that had
passed since the clues dead ended in the Florida Everglades. It had been his
first assignment as head of Miami’s Serial Killer Task Force and the mental
connection he had made with the killer that night had faded into a more
rational sense of disbelief—until now. A spider-like sense of legs crawling
inside his brain tickled the fringes of consciousness, then vanished.
Oppressive
pressure crushed his chest. Gerry drew a slow breath to ease the constriction.
A February gust sent a wave of goose bumps up his arms. He froze as a mental throb
receded into the blackness of his mind. Where had that come from? What the hell
was it?
Like
a window shade that snapped up, music blared through the open door of the club,
jarring him back to the sight of two women pressed close in a dirty dancing gyration.
The taller of the women rubbed silicone double-Ds strapped into a sequined
halter top against the other woman’s c-cup breasts. Several men had stepped out
of line to watch. Gerry grimaced at the garish makeup the women wore and
inhaled a shaky breath as he shifted his gaze to the line of glitterati backed
up halfway down the block.
In
the sea of heavenly female bodies, his gaze latched onto a busty dyed blonde
waiting in line. She smiled, but he turned away. Whether it was the brassiness
of the bottled color or the fact the woman was easily a foot shorter than his
six feet, the knot in his gut told him he couldn't stomach another blonde. An
unexpected desire to unravel that knot with a scotch surfaced. He’d been down
that road before and nearly destroyed his life. No way was he going back. He
headed for the front of the line and stopped beside the bouncer.
The big Cuban with no neck gave him a quick
glance. “Back of the line,” he said, and motioned the two brunettes at the
front of the line into the club with a nod.
Gerry watched the women sashay under the
yellow neon light that flashed The Hot
Spot, then step through the club’s open door.
“Busy tonight,” Gerry said.
The man glared. Gerry pulled the badge from
his back pocket and flipped it open.
The bouncer glanced at it. “Yeah?” he grunted
as he motioned two more women into the club.
Digitized bass boomed in an abrupt crescendo
and Gerry winced. “Is it always like this?” He motioned to the crowd.
“Thursday night’s always busy.”
“Got a lot of regulars?”
“Dunno.” He waved in the two young women
who’d been dancing together.
Gerry watched them enter the club. The
sequined beauty cast a dark-eyed glance over her shoulder before disappearing
inside. Damn, she’d known he was watching.
He looked back at the bouncer. “You’re new
here.”
The bouncer gave him an appraising look, then
gave in. “Richie,” he replied.
Gerry reached inside his pullover sweater,
located his shirt pocket, and retrieved the photo of Frank Vitelli. He held it
out. “Recognize this guy?”
Richie looked at the photo. “Yeah. I seen
him.”
“Was he here last night?”
The bouncer shrugged, bunching up what little
neck he had until shoulders and jaw met. “Don’t remember. I seen lots of folks
come and go.”
“You sure? This guy used his credit card here
last night.”
He shrugged again and asked for the IDs of
the young couple who stepped up next. Gerry pocketed the picture and brushed
past him into the club. The fetid combination of sweet liquor, perfume, and
sweat assaulted his nostrils. Dance music hammered his eardrums and
multicolored lights flashed. He hadn’t been in The Hot Spot in a while, but its black walls and suspended tile
ceiling still needed remodeling.
He scanned the tables, the dance floor, and
the bar along the left wall. The place was jam-packed. He glanced at the
occupancy sign. Two hundred and twelve, by order of the fire marshal. Twice
that many were shoehorned inside. Gerry squeezed through the throng to the bar.
He flashed his badge to get the nearest bartender’s attention. The barkeep
nodded and grabbed a bottle of gin as a softer Latin tune played through the
sound system.
“What’s your name?” Gerry asked.
“Collin.”
“Collin, did you see this guy last night?” He
slid Vitelli’s mug-shot across the bar as the bartender set the gin on the
counter and reached for two glasses from the overhead rack.
Collin dug each one through the ice machine
beneath the bar as he studied the picture. “Yeah.” He metered a shot of gin
into each glass. “Frankie. Big tipper.”
“Was he with anyone?”
Collin grabbed one of the dispenser lines in
front of him and filled the glass to the rim with tonic. “Not at first. He
cruised the floor until this woman he knows showed up.”
Gerry paused while reaching inside his
sweater for a notepad and pen. “A woman he knows?”
After placing the two drinks at the waiter’s
station to his right, Collin turned back to Gerry. “A blonde, tall,
mid-shoulder-length hair. They hung out at the bar over there.” He jerked a
thumb at the far end of the bar.
Gerry glanced in the mirror behind the bar at
the hundred other blondes who fit that description. “Can you narrow it down?
How about a name?”
Collin shook his head. “Naw.”
Gerry flipped open his pad. “What time did
she arrive?”
Collin turned, dug into the beer cooler and
came up with a Heineken. “Maybe twelve-thirty.”
“Can you describe her?”
The bartender set the beer on the waiter’s
station, grabbed the towel hanging over his shoulder, and wiped his hands. He
leaned against the counter. “Good looking, but Frankie only goes for the
lookers.”
Gerry began jotting notes. “How old?”
“Between twenty and twenty-five.”
“Height, weight?”
“Five-eight, five-nine. One fifteen, maybe.”
“What was she wearing?”
He thought for a moment. “Short knit
top—black—with her belly button showing. White skirt. Great legs. Despite the
trendy outfit, she had a real goddess thing going on.”
Gerry looked up from his notes. “Goddess
thing?”
“Yeah. You know, tall, angled features, the
classical look. Remember that sculpture, the Wings of Nike?”
“The goddess Nike?”
“Yeah.” Collin gazed upward, his expression
deliberate as he recited, “‘When an August dawn wakes over you, your atmosphere
is potent with their life, and sometimes a young ethereal figure indistinct, in
rapid flight, wings across your hills.’” He refocused on Gerry. “Constantine
Cavafy.”
Gerry raised a brow.
Collin grinned. “I dated an art major in
college.” His grin widened. “She was something of a goddess herself.”
Gerry grinned back. He’d dated a goddess or
two in his lifetime. “Our blonde goddess, what was she drinking?”
“Same as him, vodka martinis.”
“Did you notice anything out of the ordinary
with Frankie?”
“No—” Collin snapped his fingers. “Wait,
Frankie’s a pretty laid back guy, but I thought he was going to punch this
chick.”
“The blonde?”
“Yeah.”
“What were they arguing about?”
Collin shook his head. “Frankie raised his
voice. I turned and saw them almost nose-to-nose. I started for them, but
Frankie saw me and laughed. The chick’s got balls. She grabbed his hand with
that god-awful ring he was wearing, shoved it into his face, and laughed.”
Collin whistled. “He’s big, she’s small. He could kill her with one punch.”
A glint in Gerry's peripheral vision startled
him. “Sounds like the violent type,” he answered mildly as he turned his head
toward the flicker. A moonlit river of grass stretched out in an endless
silvery-tinted mass. The quiet drone of an air boat racing atop Everglades
jumpstarted his heart. He inhaled sharply and got a nostril full of swampy air.
His choke was cut off as the boat veered left and he clutched at empty space.
How the hell—
“Look,” Collin's voice yanked him from that
night in the Glades, and the club tune playing over the PA boomed in his ear,
“in this business, you learn fast how to size up a guy. Frankie liked a good
time, but was more flash than hard knocks. He made the dough, or acted like he
did, and made sure the chicks knew it.”
A short, redheaded waitress appeared at
Gerry’s side. “I need a pina colada and a Bud draft.”
“Get Roy to do it, will you, baby?” Collin
said. “I’m kinda busy.”
She gave Gerry a curious glance. He stared,
his heart still thudding so loudly he felt sure she could hear it. She shrugged
and headed to the other side of the bar.
“You okay?” Collin asked.
Gerry looked back at him. “Yeah. This blonde,
you know her?”
“She started hanging around with Frankie
about a month ago.”
Gerry studied him. “You sound pretty sure
about that.”
“You don’t forget a woman like that.”
“Were they good friends?”
“They had a thing going.”
“Thing?” Gerry repeated.
A loud whoop went up from the dance floor.
The bartender flicked a glance over Gerry’s shoulder before answering, “Thing,
chemistry. Maybe a love-hate thing.”
“The other night was the first time Frankie
was…aggressive?”
“I wouldn’t call it aggressive. More
like…short tempered.”
“Did this short temper start when he began
hanging around with the blonde?”
Collin looked startled. “I guess it did.”
“You know anything about his business?”
Collin held up both hands, palms out. “Whoa,
man. Frankie considers himself some sort of player. Fantasy or not, I don’t
want any piece of that action.”
Gerry gave a small nod. “But he was a good
tipper.”
“Yeah. He was one of those guys who wanted to
be somebody. Can’t blame a guy for wanting respect.”
“Nope,” Gerry agreed. “Can’t blame a guy for
that. You don’t know anything else about this blonde? Did she have a jealous
ex-boyfriend?”
“I see a lot of people in here. I don’t know
anything about them outside of what goes on here.”
Gerry reached into his shirt pocket, pulled
out a business card, and placed it on the bar. “If you remember anything else,
call me.” He reached for the picture.
Collin grabbed his wrist. “Is Frankie in
trouble?”
Gerry paused. Damn. The guy didn’t read the
papers. An hour after Gerry had been assigned the case, the story broke about
Frank Vitelli, the third victim in what the newspapers dubbed The Valknut Murders. Chief Herrero had
already gotten a phone call from the local Asatru community. They were
concerned about the fact some nut was using the three interlocked triangle of
their Valknut holy symbol as a signature for murder. Who knew what that concern
would turn into if they discovered that the Valknut had been drawn on each of
the three dead bodies with the blood of the following victim?
Gerry pulled loose of Collin’s grip. “Frankie
was murdered last night.”
T. C. Archer
T. C. Archer is comprised of award winning authors Evan Trevane and Shawn M. Casey. They live in the Northeast. Evan has a Ph.D. in electrical engineering, and Shawn is a small business owner. Their collaboration began on a lark with the post WWII film noir story
The Pickle My Little Friend,
and has evolved into over a dozen works, which includes their new series The Phenom League, the Blood Angels series, and Daphne Du Maurier winner, the romantic thriller For His Eyes Only.
