The Contract Killer - Chapter One

It's seems like every other week, I'm starting a new book.  :0)  Well, I did finish Soul Brothas and am editing it, but I also just started yet another novel, Contract Killer... it's a working title.  I can't help it.  When I get an idea I start writing and I'll continue writing unless something else pops in my head.  ;0)  Well, one of my readers said I should call it The Locket.  I like that title... we'll see.  Anyway, please tell me what you think so far.  It's just one chapter - chapter one.  It's rough but I think you'll enjoy. 

Have a wonderful day!

~ Jennifer

The Contract Killer

By Jennifer Lightburn

“What’s up Menendez?  What’cha got?”

            Menendez nodded for the detective to follow him towards the bedroom of the victim’s apartment in Arlington, Virginia.  They stood in the doorway watching forensics snap pictures of the scene.  There was a bullet hole near the center of the door and a partial shoe print was adjacent the knob.  In the middle of the chaos that surrounded them was a woman’s body on the floor outlined in tape next to a king-sized bed.  She was wearing a black, silk cocktail dress and open-toe, black Patten leather pumps. 

            “Janice Smalls… DOA… 27.  From the position of her body and the cap to the back of her head, she probably didn’t know it was coming,” Menendez said.  “She was a pretty girl.  Smart too – graduated from Yale.  She has brides magazines all over the place – must have been planning her wedding.”

            Walking inside, Detective Tina Johnson looked around the enormous master bedroom.  She noted the crown molding, posh furniture, 52” flat screen TV, and a jewelry box on the chest of drawers.  There was costume jewelry that had to cost a fortune and gold and gemstone rings and necklaces that had to cost even more.  Johnson waited until the photos of the body were taken.  She put on her gloves and lifted the deceased woman’s hand, noticing at least a three carat diamond ring on the victim’s finger.  Couldn’t have been a robbery, she thought and then stood observing a blotch of red from across the room.  She walked over to the sliding glass door that led to a balcony.  There was blood on the door handle. 

            “We took a sample and we’re dusting for fingerprints now,” Menendez said. 

            Johnson couldn’t help notice that Menendez was sweating.  He tended to perspire without even the slightest overexertion.  Murder cases made his perspiration worse and thus his body odor.

            “Any witnesses?” Johnson asked.

            With an accent from New York or maybe Jersey, Menendez said, “Nosy neighbors were lining up to see something gruesome, but the couple from 3B said they heard a gun shot and shortly thereafter they heard a woman scream.  The guy next door said moments after the shot he saw someone run out of the apartment through his peephole.”

            “Male or female?”

            “He couldn’t tell.  The person wore a cloak.”

            Besides the count, how many men wear a cloak? Johnson thought.  “Just one gun shot?”

            Menendez combed back his wet hair.  “Yeah, there’s only one bullet hole and one casing,” he replied.

            That didn’t make sense.  Johnson walked back to the body, knelt down and tilted the woman’s head so she could get a better look.  She gently lifted the victim’s hair to see the entry wound.  Blood seeped out of one area.  She looked at the hole in the door.  Unless the killer screamed, there were more than two people in the apartment, and there had to be more than two shots fired, she thought.  Just as she was about to ask if family had been notified, she heard loud commotion from the other room.  She walked out of the bedroom.  In the foyer was an older woman dressed in a mink coat.  She wore diamond earrings and stood next to a man who looked as if he’d stepped off a photo shoot for GQ. 

            “This is my daughter’s house.  The neighbor’s called me.  I know something is terribly wrong,” the woman protested. 

            Telling family about the fate of a deceased loved one was what Johnson hated most about her job.  She walked to the distraught woman, trying to find the words to console her but realized there were no words in the English dictionary, and English was the only language she spoke.  As Johnson reached out to take the elderly woman’s hand, the woman collapsed on the floor.  Johnson turned around to see the stretcher with Janice Smalls’ body covered in a white sheet.  She helped the handsome man lift Mrs. Emily Smalls to her feet.  

            “I’m sorry, ma’am.  Your daughter is gone... she died,” Johnson said. 

            “What did they do to my daughter,” Emily Smalls wailed.

            “You may want to wait until the coroner has time to…”

            “I want to see my baby,” cried Mrs. Smalls.

            Johnson swallowed and looked into the woman’s sorrowful eyes.  Though she could empathize with the woman’s pain, something bothered her.  It was the way Mrs. Smalls responded to her daughter's death that made Tina Johnson wonder if she had an idea who was responsible.  Who are they that she was referring to?  Against her better judgment she nodded for EMS to lift the covering.  Mrs. Smalls would have to identify her daughter soon enough, Johnson thought.  It was difficult to tell the color of the Janice Smalls hair as it was dyed with red blood.  Still, she looked peaceful, as peaceful as one could look laying dead on a stretcher. 

            “Call another bus,” Johnson commanded as Mrs. Smalls lost consciousness. 

Dominique Watson didn’t have time to slip on her heals or grab her coat for that matter.  She barely had time to close the door when she saw the gunman standing in the living room.  She managed to shut and lock the door just before the bullet penetrated the wood bedroom door and skinned her hand.  She ran to the balcony, hastily climbed the railing and didn’t hesitate to jump to the oak tree.  She tore her stockings and broke her pinky finger as she clumsily fell down the side, barely able to grasp the oak for dear life.  She fell to the ground.  For a moment she didn’t know if she could move, but she got up.  She limped in the darkness down the residential neighborhood to 23rd Street.  People who stood outside the community restaurants and bars moved out of her way as if she was a vagabond.  She waived down a taxi.  The first driver took one look at her and sped by.  Normally she’d think it was racial profiling, but then she thought, if she were a taxi driver she may not have picked herself up.  The second taxi driver took his chances.  The middle-aged Pakistani needed the fare.  She looked a mess.  Her hair, which was neatly in a bun, was now shaggy and all over her face.  Her rich brown skin was dotted with blood and there was a cut on her face where a limb nicked her.  Her expensive dress and hosiery were torn and she was barefooted.  She was definitely in some type of trouble, but the Middle Eastern man learned a long time ago to mind his own business.  He was paid to drive people around not play social worker.  He had his doubts if he should pick her up, but she was a woman and he felt if worse came to worse he could handle her. 

            Dominique jumped in the car and scooted down into the seat. 

            “Let me see some money,” the driver said before he left the curb. 

            Dominique thanked God for listening to her mother.  On her very first date when she was a teenager, her mother told her to always keep money in her bra in case of emergencies.  She pulled out a fifty and tossed it to the front seat. 

            “Foggy Bottom.  Hurry!”

 

Vinny Michaels was hiding in the hall closet when Janice Smalls came into her apartment.  She turned the hallway light on and walked to the bedroom.  He heard her talking to someone and figured she was on the phone because he didn’t hear any response.  He tiptoed towards her bedroom, placing the silencer on his 45 as he reached the doorway.  Typically he liked to torture his victims with scare tactics and see the frightened look on their face as they took the bullet, but he had dinner plans and didn’t want to be late.  He shot her in the back of the head and turned to walk away, twisting the silencer off the gun.  Just as he got to the door, he thought he heard a sound… movement.  It couldn’t have been his contract.  There was no way she could have survived that close range bullet wound.  Pretending to leave the premises, he opened the front door and closed it, and he heard the movement again.  He walked towards the bedroom and saw a woman kneeling next to Small’s body.  She looked up, and before he could run inside the bedroom, she closed the door and locked it.  He shot the door, kicked it in and rushed inside, but the woman had already jumped out the window.  He saw her lying on the ground.

            It’s their lucky day.  They got two for the price of one, he thought.

            He walked outside to make sure the woman was dead, but she was gone.  There were only traces of her blood.  This unnerved him, but he did the job that he was paid to do.  That’s what he kept telling himself.  The problem was that he left a loose end, and even though he’d still get paid half a million dollars, he couldn’t live with the thought of doing such sloppy work.  He had a reputation to consider.  People paid him top dollar because he never left traces of evidence. 

            Michaels high-tailed it out of site before the cops arrived.  From a distance he saw them storm into the building like a stampede of wild elephants.  He’d always wanted to be cop, but his line of business paid more, and his father always told him to make as much money as he could.  He walked leisurely to his car, not able to get the woman’s face out of his mind.  She had large brown eyes, warm brown skin, high cheek bones and a button nose.  He’d seen her before.  But where?  He couldn’t place her face.  Just as he put the key in the ignition of his car, he remembered… the locket. 

Until Sunday

I miss my son, but I have to tell you that I really enjoyed this week.  It’s been nice just doing me, not having to cook a full course dinner.  Last night for dinner I had grits, bacon and eggs and I was completely satisfied.  I read my book in the quiet of my house.  There were no kids running in and out, no dog chasing after my son barking, no swatting flies because the door was left wide open, no TV so loud a deaf person could hear it.  No, mommy, mommy, mommy!  Just peacefulness.  My son will be home on Sunday.  He’ll come in the door with arms wide open and a big smile and say, “Hi Mommy!  I’m home!”  :0)

I love that boy!  

Soul Brothas

Prologue

She’d sworn with every fabric of her being to teach the kids in her neighborhood a lesson.  She was a witch and didn’t spook the neighborhood as much as the kids belittled each other with vulgarity and threats of violence.  It was a damn shame that in this day and age kids were acting as if they were living in the Jim Crow era, she thought.  So early that morning when she heard a five-year-old child say to another, “What chu lookin’ at nigga,” the old Indian woman nearly turned the boy into a frog, but she decided that turning him into an amphibian would not help the boy’s situation, so she changed his father into one instead.  She picked the frog up and zipped him in her housecoat pocket until she got home, and then she put him in a jar and she watched as he tirelessly tried to jump out.  She scolded him until he stopped hopping and listened as he promised with several croaks to amend his prejudice ways and teach his son to be respectful of all races.  Then with a twirl of her wand she set the father free, promising to change him back if he spoke a word to anyone about what happened.  That afternoon, she decided to take the path that ran along the high school and led to the store so she could buy worms for her soup.  As she was passing the high school, she saw the two teenagers in the parking lot.  They were the same two teenagers that she often heard swearing and talking down to each other when she was taking her evening stroll.  She watched as they got into fighter’s stance.  They each had their fist in the air.  Just as both gave each other an uppercut, she twirled her wand.  Lightning struck them and their bodies fell to the ground.

“What are you laughing at nigga?”

I couldn’t believe my ears.  Besides the nonchalant blaring of the word nigger on film and rap songs, I have only heard someone say it (using its malicious connotation) in front of me one other time.

That was twenty years ago.  A white guy in a group that I hung around decided to tell a racist joke with the N-word as the punch line.  I had never been so offended, and it shocked me how one little word could make me want to hall off and punch the guy in the face. 

The childhood adage: “sticks and stones can break my bones but words will never hurt me” was complete bullshit that day.

My boyfriend, Juan Carlos, had to hold me back.  I was outraged.

Later that day, I remember thinking about my mother’s generation and generations before my mother’s generation – having to hear that word roll off the tongues of people constantly.  And I didn’t understand why my own people would use it – especially openly or as a term of endearment.

Anyway, the white guy ended up apologizing to me.  He said he didn’t think I would get angry. 

Fast forward twenty years. 

I’m at the pool with my son.  There are kids selling lemonade across the street.  A little Spanish boy walked to the gate of the pool where we were sitting and asked my son if he’d like some lemonade.  My son said, “No, thank you,” and started laughing because we just saw Dennis the Menace the day before, and he remembered Dennis urinating in the pitcher and passing it off as lemonade.

So, the little boy said to my son, “What are you laughing at nigga?”

My son immediately stopped laughing.  He stood there shocked.  It had been the first time anyone called him that name.   

Being that I was older and experienced many vulgarities in life, I was not as outraged as I was twenty years ago, but I was hurt that my son had to experience such wickedness being spewed upon him.

The little boy didn’t see me initially because I was in a lawn chair with the back facing him.  So when I stood up and turned around, his eyes said what his mouth didn’t, “Oh, fuck!”

Children who heard the kid’s ugly words gathered around. 

I was juggling in my mind what I wanted to say to this kid, knowing that I had to speak carefully. 

In an authoritative voice, I said, “Young man, I am ashamed of you and you should be ashamed of yourself.”

This white pre-teen shouted, “Yeah, we don’t tolerate racism on our block.”

A Spanish kid said, “If you’re going to talk like that then you can’t play with us anymore.”

The little boy looked at me as if to say, please make them stop. 

“You need to apologize.  That is a mean and hurtful word.  Don’t you ever say that again,” I said.

(For those of you thinking he has the right to say whatever he pleases, I say, so do I ;0)

“Yes, ma’am, I’m sorry,” the little boy replied and then walked away.

The kids who were gathered around jumped in the pool.

My son walked over to me and said, “I couldn’t believe my ears.  I don’t care that he’s a kid; you should have cussed him out.”

I laughed and replied, “I can understand your anger, but two wrongs don’t make a right.”

OMG – My Baby Boy is Going to Leave Me

I wasn’t prepared for this.  My son said he wants to stay with his father for the entire summer.  Many single moms like me may have rejoiced with this opportunity. 

Shoot – I barely have time to use the bathroom in peace.  And my son wears out my name like that annoying child on The Family Guy.  Every time I turn around, it’s “Mommy can I…” 

If my son were to stay with his father, I’d have an entire summer with a clean house. 

I wouldn’t have to come home fussing about crap being everywhere it shouldn’t.  I would have quiet.  I’d be able to just do me without thinking of my son’s needs first. 

I wouldn’t have to cook dinner every night.  I could actually watch whatever program I wanted without feuding with him about turning the channel when a commercial came on.

But Lord knows I’d miss that loud-ass kid.  I’d miss him blasting some B-bop on YouTube.  I’d miss him hogging the big couch as he watched Nickelodeon.  I’d even miss him complaining about having to walk the dog that he begged me to adopt. 

I asked him why he wanted to leave, and he said he’d be bored.  With daycare costing a fortune and my son being a mature young man, he’d have to stay home. 

Instead he wants to work at his father’s company washing cars so he could make some extra money. 

How could I say no to him wanting to do something positive for himself?

How could I say no to him wanting to spend time with his father?

I suppose him leaving for the summer would prepare me for the day he actually leaves the nest and goes off to college.

After I sulked for a few minutes, I said into the phone, “But I’ll miss you.”

My son replied in his adolescent voice, “Daddy lives right down the street, and I’ll see you on the weekends, mommy.”

I laughed aloud but then thought, OMG – My baby boy is going to leave me!

A Date With Destiny - Fiction

I was summoned to come and say goodbye to my mother before she died.  Even though I knew for months that my mother was sick, I was ill prepared for such a phone call.  I simply wasn’t ready.  But then again, who is ready for death?  As much as I tried, I couldn’t wrap my head around the notion that, except for family photos and video tape, I’d never see her again.  I’d never be able to call her for advice and lean my head on her shoulders.  She was more than my mother.  She was my best friend.  Mournful of my impending loss, I strained my voice to tell God how much I hated him.  He is the all mighty and the all powerful.  How could he take her away from me?  For a moment, I was angry with my mother too.  Why couldn’t she fight harder?  How could she let her soul slip away?  How could she leave me here on earth to deal with life without her presence, encouragement, love and support?  These were only some of the feelings that violated my mind. 

Other thoughts made me cringe.  On the drive to the hospital I felt as if it was a beautiful day to die.  The sky was the most magnificent shade of blue, and at six o’clock in the morning, the weather was already seventy-five degrees.   I spent more time looking at the sky than at the cars that were racing in front of me, and for a fleeting moment, I considered accelerating to the point of dangerously losing control, but hurting someone else in the process of ending my own life kept my foot from flooring the accelerator. 

Somehow, without being mindful of my surroundings, I made it to the hospital.  My mother was lying on the bed.  She looked well older than her sixty years.  Her hand was cool; her body still.  I sat there, holding her and crying hysterically as the gurgling in her throat became even more intense.   And then I gasped and had a crazy sense of relief.  My mother smiled after taking her last breath. 

TO BE CONTINUED

End of Chapter One - Murder In Queen County

“Just give it to him,” Monica said.

Annette shook her head and then handed over her license. 

The Sherriff walked away.

“He can’t do that!” Annette said with her voice slightly elevated. 

Monica combed her hair back with her fingers and said, “Calm down.  He can and he did.  He’s just being a prick because he obviously has nothing better to do.”

“I’m not used to these backwards hillbillies.”

“And I am?  Look, we’re both tired and worn.  We’ll find a hotel and get settled and then go get a bite to eat.  Just let me do the talking.”

“Fine.”

The Sherriff came back to the car and threw the licenses in the open window.

“Handle it,” Annette said, turning to look out of the passenger’s side window.

“Are we free to go?” Monica said with pierced lips to the Sherriff.

“Yeah, you free to get out this town.  We don’t take kindly to strangers in these parts,” the Sherriff replied.

“Actually, we’re staying for awhile.  Thought this may be a good place to lay down some roots,” Monica retorted in an accent that mocked the Sherriff’s southern drawl.  “Matter fact, can you tell us where we might find a hotel to lay our head for the evening?”

“Ain’t none,” the Sherriff said.

“From the looks of this place, I know you don’t have a Taj Mahal, but you’re telling me that you don’t have a Sheraton, a Hilton, a Comfort Inn, a Motel 6?”

“Ain’t no need,” the Sherriff said.

“But they have a Bed and Breakfast,” Annette said, pointing to a wooden sign up ahead. 

“Ain’t no vacancies,” the Sherriff said.

Monica blew out a gasp of air and nodded.  “Ok, Mr. Sherriff man, you win.  We’ll leave.”

“And don’t come back now, you hear,” the Sherriff said, as he turned around.

Monica waited until he took one step and then put her gear in drive.  She spun around him and into a parking spot in front of the Bed and Breakfast.  “Wait here.  I’ll check us in,” she said to Annette, jetting out of the car.

Before the Sherriff was able to run into the lobby, the clerk at the Bed and Breakfast handed Monica a pair of keys. 

Monica turned around to face the Sherriff and waived the key.  “You were wrong Sherriff.  They had one room left.”