Don't Stop Believing

By Bob Mueller

You'd think he'd know more about his girlfriend.

Scott Ehricson just watched Samantha Taylor get booked for murder. Turns out she was busted once for prostitution, and she owns a strip club, too.

He's a new Christian, but hasn't found anything in the Bible to cover this situation. And she was pretty clear about wanting him out of her life that day at the jail.

But the woman he loves is facing a lethal injection unless he can figure out who's behind the threatening phone calls, slashed tires, and arson at her club. Did Victor Landis have something to do with it?

Is that why Landis ended up dead, with the murder weapon in Sam's purse?

As Scott starts digging, he gets strange phone calls of his own. And who slashed his tires? Maybe Victor wasn't the innocent visitor the cops thought he was.

Then there's Sam's bouncer, and the dirty looks he keeps giving Scott. People have learned the hard way that he gets protective of "his girls." Is Scott going to learn the same painful lesson?

Can he protect Sam?

Does she even want him to?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Indefixa
• Release date: Sep 2, 2016
• ISBN: 9780997675337

Bob Mueller

When you get right down to it, Bob Mueller writes about emotions. He finds them in his own experiences as a divorced father and family member of a sex abuse survivor, and from the people he meets. He puts himself in someone else’s shoes, and teases out their feelings. Blending that with bits and pieces of history and life experience, he crafts a story that might have been inspired by a song, or a news article. But it’s about emotions in the end. Born in north Texas and raised in southeastern Ohio, Bob is a member of International Thriller Writers, Tulsa NightWriters and Oklahoma Writer’s Federation, a father of eight, and a pastor’s husband. When he’s not writing, he enjoys reading (thrillers, historical fiction and non-fiction, and police procedurals), genealogy, and shooting. For more information, visit http://www.bobmuellerwriter.com.

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Chapter 1

August 2004

What's the dress code for a third date? It was just dinner at a local steakhouse. I suppose on the first few dates you want to look nice anyway, but there was something about Sam that made me want to dress up. I had a hard time leaving my suit and tie in the closet, finally settling on the classic blue button-down shirt and tan slacks.

Why was I so worked up about this date? Sam was a beautiful woman, a few years older than I was, but I couldn't figure out why I was so nervous about seeing her again. She was different enough from the few women I had dated, though, that I found myself tongue-tied on our first real date. I certainly didn't have any problems talking to her the night we met, but then again, sitting in a coffee shop at two in the morning tends to make it easy to talk to people. In fact, we were getting along so well and laughing so loudly that we almost got thrown out of the place.

Maybe it was my dating history, courtesy of my mother. Most of my dating relationships hadn't lasted very long. Mom had run off when I was five, and Dad's response to that was to lose himself in bars when he wasn't working. Maybe that's why I was so nervous about Sam. Maybe I was already scared that I'd lose her. Thanks, Mom.

After our coffee-shop meeting very early one Thursday, we went out to dinner the following Monday, then a movie a week later. Conversations had moved from the getting-to-know-you stage to an almost mundane, What happened at work this week? kind of thing. We were getting comfortable with each other, and I liked her. A lot. But I was still nervous about seeing her again.

Sam arrived about five minutes behind me, breathless and stunning. Her hair was down, and I realized it was the first time I had seen it that way. It was much curlier than I had first thought, too. I know cascading blonde hair is a cliché, but that was the first thing I thought of when I saw her. She had on a gold-colored silk tank top and black slacks that made me feel underdressed.

Sorry I'm late, she said, giving me a quick hug.

I stood there staring at her. I swear you get prettier every time I see you.

She blushed deeply. Does that mean I'm forgiven for being late?

Five minutes isn't late, it's making an entrance.

She smiled.

We were quiet while we looked over the menus. I went for chicken and ribs, and Sam had barbecue chicken. If she held true to form, she'd eat half of it and claim she was stuffed. She ate like a bird, and I told her with a smile that first night that I appreciated that she was a cheap date. She'd said she'd get expensive on down the road.

After the server left with our order, Sam seemed to study me for a long minute or two, making me nervous. Do I have something on me? I started checking my shirt for stains.

She smiled. Nope. Just enjoying the view and the company. She looked away for a second. I guess I'm just not used to being the center of attention like this. When you look at me, I feel like I'm the only woman around. That's unusual for me, and I like it.

I suppose this would be a bad time to start singing cheesy Air Supply love songs?

She laughed. Only because they've got country music on.

We chatted and laughed for the next hour or so as we ate, talking about everything and nothing. She commented on some of my photos she had seen on the Dispatch website, and another couple she had found online. I asked about her week, and she said it was the usual: renters coming and going, dealing with employees and customers at the retail places she had, and trying not to go crazy.

Finally we were talked and desserted out. I didn't want the evening to end, and told her so, in what I hoped wasn't a sappy way. I'm just really enjoying myself here. I...I really like you, Sam. I could easily get used to spending a lot of time around you.

She smiled, but there was just a hint of sadness in her eyes. I'm enjoying myself around you too. She looked down for a second, then back at me. Her expression was a little darker, and a little sad. And I'd really like to keep seeing you, Scott.

My heart began racing, and I swallowed hard. That sounded like there was a 'but' coming.

That sad smile crossed her face again, and she shook her head. No. No buts. Just fair warning, I guess. There's a lot going on in my life right now, so it may not be easy. Let's just promise to take things slowly, okay? Carefully.

I can do slow, as long as we're not talking glaciers. That got me a smile.

No glaciers. Promise. Hey, what are you doing on Sunday?

I shrugged. Nothing after church. We get done around noon. I'll be in Gahanna.

Call me when you start heading back this way, and we'll do something. Maybe a picnic. We can talk some more about things then.

A weight came off my shoulders. I hadn't realized how nervous I was. Deal.

We walked out to her car, a blue Chrysler convertible. Yeah, a beautiful blonde in a convertible. We hugged, and she kissed me on the cheek. Sunday couldn't come soon enough.

* * *

Phone calls at three o'clock on a Sunday morning are rarely good news. In my line of work, they meant tragedy had destroyed another life, and I needed to go get the details for the paper. I worked for the Dispatch as a contract photojournalist. Sounded fancy to some people, but I was a just a stringer, which meant that I had the independence to work on other projects when things were slow on certain beats in Columbus.

Scott, it's Bob Garrido at the paper. Got a stabbing for you down at Cooper Stadium. Sheriff's office is there now.

I sighed. That was one thing about living close to downtown—I got a lot of stuff like this, and with it being so late in the night, I wasn't getting any more sleep before I had to head for church. Got it. Be there in about ten minutes. Even though I was just waking up, it didn't take me long to get dressed, grab my go-bag, and head out the door.

It was easy to find the crime scene, ironically in the shadow of an old Sheriff's Office Annex on the north side of the stadium, just off West Mound Street. A Columbus Fire medic truck stood by, along with an EMS Supervisor's rig and two sheriff's cruisers. I parked well away from the crime scene tape, hung my press credentials around my neck, and walked over to the nearest cruiser.

A white car sat in the middle of the scene, with both front doors open. I could see a body inside, and snapped off a couple of long shots as the paramedics were moving to cover the body. I took a few more photos of the scene, catching the lights on the cruisers. One of the deputies wandered over, almost strolling. It was Gordy Strong, the night shift sergeant for the West Side. We had gotten to know each other well enough over the last few years, mostly from scenes like this, unfortunately. He was the kind of cop who could go from a bar fight to talking down a jumper to a domestic without missing a beat.

I bet you didn't even bring me coffee tonight, he said with a smile. It was a long-running joke.

Man, I forgot. I'll get the next one for sure though, okay? We shook hands, looking off at the car. What's the story?

CPD officer on another call spotted the car and called us. New guy over there got here first, and lost his lunch over it. The other deputy was by the paramedics, and I had thought they were just talking shop. I pulled my notepad from my bag and started writing.

First dead body?

Gordy shrugged. I guess. Messy, too. I stopped counting at a dozen stab wounds, and that's just the ones I could see without moving clothing.

Any ID?

Car's a rental, with a Mahoning County sticker, which means Youngstown. Waiting for the detectives and lab guys to get here.

Any response yet from the rental company?

He shook his head. Not that I've heard, anyway.

Anything else worth mentioning?

Not really. Car was shut off when Beecher got here. Nothing on the seats that we could see. Beecher said it must have happened fairly recently. Said he had left Mount Carmel around two, and came by here then and didn't see anything. Mount Carmel West was a nearby hospital, maybe five minutes away at this time of night.

I scribbled more notes. Any idea who's catching this one?

I think Dan Erwin's up. You know him?

I shook my head.

Good guy. That was high praise coming from Gordy. We chatted for a few more minutes, then I headed to the Dispatch office to turn in my photos and copy. Maybe I could grab a little more sleep after all.

* * *

I did manage to get a little more sleep, by napping on my couch rather than going to back to bed. The service was good, and I even stayed awake during Pastor Bill's sermon. After the service, I stood by my Land Cruiser and waited for traffic to clear out of the parking lot, and called Sam, or at least tried to.

Hey, this is Sam. Sorry I missed you. Leave me a message! Even her voicemail greeting sounded like she was smiling.

Hey, it's me. Just got out of church. Headed for home. Give me a call. I was a little surprised that she hadn't answered, because she was usually pretty quick to pick up, even if she couldn't talk.

She hadn't called back by the time I exited I-670 for home, so I tried her one more time, got her voicemail again, and told her I would wait for her to call me at home, and left both numbers in the message.

I started getting concerned around three when I realized I had been sitting at home for a couple of hours and she still hadn't called back. I left another message wanting to make sure I had remembered today's plans correctly.

By five, I moved from concerned to worried when I realized I only had one phone number for her. No home number or address, and I didn't know the name of her store or her rental company. I thought back over some of our conversations and couldn't figure out how I had missed gathering those bits of information. I didn't even know what part of town she lived in. So much for that journalism degree. I checked the phone book without success—there were no Samantha or Sam Taylors listed in Columbus. Not even an S. Taylor. No Taylor Rentals, or anything similar in the Yellow Pages.

Crap. Where was she?

Sunday night I was almost in a panic for not hearing from her, and realizing that I had nothing to work with to find her. The only personal information I had was her cellphone number, and I didn't have any contacts in any of the cell carriers to try to get a home address. I called her four or five more times Monday, but didn't leave messages. By Tuesday morning, calls were going straight to voicemail without even ringing, as though the phone were turned off. Or was she blocking my calls? I tried another half a dozen times throughout Tuesday, and finally gave up around eight that night.

I wasn't real clear on how to handle things at this point. I hadn't dated much, even as late as my college years, because I was still dealing with my mother running out on me. Mom had promised me that she would always love me and would always be there for me. I remember that so clearly, even though I was only five, getting ready to go to kindergarten for the first time. I was scared to death to go to that great big building with all those other kids and grownups I didn't know. Mom walked me to the bus, gave me a hug and kiss like all the other moms that day and promised me she'd be there for me when I got home. She was that day and several days after. Then one day our neighbor Mrs. Throp was there, saying Mom had to go run an errand and would be back soon.

But she never came back.

With that kind of background, it's probably not too surprising that I was starting to get pretty annoyed by Wednesday. I figured Sam had decided for one reason or another that she didn't want a relationship with me, and that walking away from me was the best way to end it, and that idea really torqued me off. At least have enough respect for a person to tell them the relationship is over. Walking away just leaves a person hanging, forever wondering if they could have done something differently to make you love them enough to stay.

The phone rang around 9:15 AM, making my pulse race. I prayed it was Sam, and my heart broke when I saw COLS DISPATCH on the Caller ID. This is Scott.

Scott, it's Tina Bremer. Jordan wants you to get down to Marconi. CPD is arresting someone on that stabbing you covered Sunday morning, and he wants you to get a photo and more information. Marconi meant Marconi Boulevard, Columbus Police Headquarters. Anyone picked up on a warrant would be transported there for identification and paperwork, then taken over to the County Jail in the Courthouse for transportation to a regular county facility. Marconi was probably my best chance to beat anyone on a photo.

I grabbed a pencil. Do you guys have anything else?

Not really. Someone heard something on the scanner about executing a warrant up in the Campus area, and Jordan called the PIO. All they gave him was that it was related to the stabbing.

The CPD's Public Information Officer could be stingy with information, despite the title. Anyone hear the address?

Nope. It's been about ten minutes since we heard the scanner, so that part's probably all done, Jordan says.

Okay. I'm out of here. Call you when I know something.

Fifteen minutes later, I was standing outside the Identification Section. CPD's Headquarters building had lots of glass fronts to the offices, and more than once I had been able to get good photos of suspects as they made their way through the booking process. The staff didn't mind us being there as long as we behaved and stayed out of the way.

Ten minutes after I got there, one of the clerks made eye contact with me and pointed at a door. I brought the camera up, checking my focus. The door at the end of hallway opened up, and a uniformed officer stepped through, followed by another officer guiding a woman in front of him.

Sam!

My mouth went dry, and my eyes blurred just a little. I heard the camera take a photo, then another, then another, as my fingers went on automatic pilot. Her hands were cuffed behind her, and her hair looked flat and dull. Her head stayed down until just at the end. The officer guiding her stopped to talk to someone behind him, and Sam glanced back for just a second, just as my shutter finger twitched again. She had a look of complete humiliation and failure in her eyes, and my heart ached.

What had she done?

Chapter 2

My mind reeled as I drove back to the Dispatch office to file my story. The booking clerk at CPD had told me Sam was charged with murder, aggravated murder, and robbery. She had a prostitution arrest on her record eight years ago as well. Who was this woman? I sat in the parking lot, trying to wrap my head around this morning. A woman I was pretty seriously attracted to was accused of murder, and had been a prostitute at one time. The idea thudded loudly around in my head as I tried to balance everything I thought I knew about her with the crime scene photos I had taken early Sunday morning. It wasn't working.

I headed up to the Metro desk, practically running past Tina Bremer at the reception desk. Grabbing an open workstation, I logged in and somehow hammered out a couple of hundred words to go with the photos I had. After a proofread, I sent the file on to Jordan Fellows, the Metro Editor, then got up to leave. I wanted to do some digging in to Sam's past and present, and I desperately needed to talk to someone about what was going on. I was waiting for the elevator when I heard Jordan calling me. The elevator arrived, and for just a second, I considered ignoring him, then slowly turned around. What's up?

I've got an idea I want to run by you. Ten minutes?

I smiled. Ten minutes in Jordan's world was twenty or more in the real world. Sure.

We settled in his office, or at least I tried to. Jordan kept lots of stuff. He had awards from thirty years as a newsman along with knick-knacks and gee-gaws from at least a dozen countries that he had accumulated over those thirty years. It wasn't necessarily a messy office, but it wasn't big either, and all the stuff scattered around made it very busy.

What's on your mind?

Hurricanes.

I cocked an eyebrow. We didn't get much hurricane activity in central Ohio. I liked that.

Bonnie is about to hit Florida, and Charley is right behind her. It's shaping up to be a pretty nasty hit. I'd like to get some coverage.

I kept a straight face, but inside I was screaming No! Not me! and running away. I can't leave right now, Jordan. See, my girlfriend just got arrested for murder, and I need to find out what else she's been hiding from me. What's the Ohio angle?

Don't know yet. I'll let you find that. You gotta figure we've got a lot of Ohio snowbirds heading down there, or just getting settled in for the winter or something. Plus if they hit as close together as they are now, it'll be historical for one state to get two hurricanes in the same day.

I thought for a minute. It'd be a pain to fly down there, then I'd have to rent wheels. On the other hand, if I drove, it'd be twelve or fourteen hours one way. How are you getting me down there?

He grunted non-committedly. I've had Tina looking for flights down there, but most of the southern airports are closing, and the closest she can get you is Atlanta or Pensacola. Then you'd have to try and find transportation to the Tampa area. Probably be better in the long run if you drove. What's that? Like twelve hours?

I shrugged, wondering how far south I-77 went. Probably closer to fifteen or sixteen, but that's still a day. Just me?

I was thinking you and Whish. Let you split the driving that way. He's got a credit card, too. We'll cover whatever you guys need.

Joel Whish and I got along okay. He wasn't afraid to work for a story, and I liked that. His Australian accent and wicked sense of humor would make the drive a lot easier, too. Can I work both sides? I wanted to be able to write stuff for other markets on this one, especially if it was going to be as big as he thought.

He grunted again. Yeah. You're pretty good about keeping your paychecks separated. I figured he'd say yes. He usually did.

'What about Sam?' a voice asked. Yeah, what about her? I wanted to find out more about here, but covering these hurricanes could bring in a nice chunk of change for me, and make it easier to help her if I needed to.

'If she's still talking to you when you get back.'

There was a pleasant thought.

I left Jordan's office and found Joel out in the Metro area. He was an Aussie by birth, having met and married his American wife while they were both stationed on Okinawa, she with the US Navy and he with the Australian Air Force. When their enlistments ran out, they came to the States. Joel said he was tired of the heat and the lack of color where he came from, although he was always a little vague about where in Australia he was actually born.

We spent half an hour making plans. He suggested my Land Cruiser over his Kia for cargo space and off-road ability, hoping we wouldn't need the latter. Joel contributed a tent and some cooking gear, and I had a couple of coolers for food and water. That settled, he headed west to his suburban home in Hilliard to get packed, leaving me to sit by his desk for a few minutes, and try to figure out what to do about Sam while I was gone. She'd be arraigned very late today, or more likely first thing tomorrow morning, and we'd be in Georgia by then, if not almost to Tampa. There was just no good way for me to handle this. Jordan didn't say it, but I could tell from his body language that he really wanted me to cover Florida. It would probably be good national exposure for me, too. Some of those markets had dried up for me lately, and it would be good for me to be noticed again. I groaned as I headed for the elevator. Some days, I just couldn't win.

Joel and I were on our way a few minutes after noon. We had stopped at the Gander Mountain in Hilliard for some freeze-dried food, then hit the Walmart next door to stock up on food, figuring it would be cheaper than buying it on the road. My truck was packed to the gills, but we wanted to be as self-sufficient as possible. The emergency workers would have enough to do without having to take care of stupid reporters.

Once we left the Outer Belt and pointed the truck south on US 33 for Marietta and I-77, Joel stretched out as well as he could and I grabbed my phone headset to call someone—anyone. Other people in my situation (now there's a scary thought) might be able to call their parents and cry on their shoulders, but that just wasn't an option for me. Mom had disappeared twenty-five years ago, and Dad probably wasn't sober enough to give me any advice. There were only a few other people I could think of talking to, and ironically Sam kept jumping to the top of the list. I settled instead on calling Dave Henderson. He and his wife had become like siblings to me since I had met them, and I trusted their judgment.

Yeah, Scott, what's up?

You busy?

I'm on duty, but I've got a minute or so. Radio chatter from the Columbus Police dispatch center almost drowned him out.

I filled him in on the last few days as quickly as I could.

Wow. Man, how well do you know this girl?

I snorted. Not nearly as well as I thought I did. What do I do?

Not sure what to tell you right now. This is a little beyond my pay grade, you know? Not something I usually have to deal with in the youth group.

I snickered.

So what are you doing for dinner tomorrow night?

At the rate I'm going, probably freeze-dried. I'm headed down to Florida to cover the hurricanes.

Oh. I was going to tell you to stop by for dinner. Look, call me when you get back, and we'll have you over. I'll dig around a little to see what I can find out. Keep your head down, okay?

Will do.

We hung up and I drove on in relative silence for half an hour or so, reflecting on the three weeks that I had known Sam. We had met late one evening when I had been rambling around downtown, shooting low-light and nightscape scenes to add to my stock work. I was born and raised in Detroit, so I knew how to take care of myself. I could fight my way out of things, but had learned the hard way that it wasn't always the best way.

Sam had been walking near Livingston and Grant when I snapped her photo. I had been attracted by her poise at first, and the confidence in her walk so late at night in not the best part of town. I'd decided to keep the image, and figured it would be better to have a release on file for her. When I'd stopped to talk to her, I'd realized she was much more attractive than I had originally thought from seventy-five yards away. She had seemed wary at first, more so than most women I had asked for a release. As we talked, she'd seemed to warm to me a bit, so I suggested we talk more at a coffee shop up by the hospital. That way she could see some more of my stuff in a safe place, I told her. She'd laughed a quiet little chuckle, murmuring something that I couldn't quite make out, but she agreed.

We'd talked for hours that morning, until the haze of the sodium and mercury lights in the downtown canyons was slowly replaced with the glimmer of natural light and the downtown of the capital city began its return to organized chaos from a restlessly quiet night. I'd shown her some images I had captured on my camera, and talked about some other work I had done. We'd discovered a shared love of 1980s rock bands and music, as well as movies from the 90s. At one point we had rambled off on a ten-minute quote-a-thon of lines from various early Keanu Reeves movies that left us both in such hysterics we almost got ejected from the coffee shop. Coming down from my laughter-induced rush, I'd asked her out without really knowing why. My request for a date had led us off on another quote-fest, this one from Frankie and Johnnie, where Al Pacino asks out co-worker Michelle Pfeiffer. I made out better than Pacino: I got the date.

We had met again for dinner the following Monday, and spent several hours talking about everything and nothing. I learned she grew up as a small-town girl, living in a lonely world all by herself. Dad slept around, Mom was alcoholic, and Sam was an only child so there wasn't much fun in her childhood. She had danced some at OSU, but dropped out for some reason she hadn't explained. Now, she said she was a halfway successful businesswoman, with a bookstore and some rental properties. She said that kept her busy during most of the evening. Now I wondered what else she was doing during the evening.

We had two other dates since that first dinner, always on Mondays.