Some People Just Need Killing

By Robert Mumma

Abby Stoneman witnesses a shocking murder while walking home from work one night in downtown Detroit. She eludes the killers initially after a heart-stopping pursuit but must live in constant fear that her own life may now be in jeopardy. An aging detective takes a personal interest in the case while the instigator behind the murder cleverly insinuates himself into Abby's life and bedroom. Abby rides a roller coaster of emotions including fear, love, betrayal, and heartache. When the truth is finally revealed and Abby is faced with evidence of her lover's deceit, will she follow her heart or her head? That decision will determine the course of her life and that of those around her. Travel with Abby on her torturous journey and discover how she responds to that impossible dilemma.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Robert A Mumma
• Release date: Oct 29, 2019
• ISBN: 9780578227139

Book preview

Some People Just Need Killing

Some People Just Need Killing

………..A Novella by Robert A. Mumma

Copyright

Copyright 2019 by Robert A. Mumma

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review or schol­arly journal.

First Printing: 2019

ISBN 978-0-578-22713-9

Robert A. Mumma

2212 London Bridge Drive

Rochester Hills, MI 48307

Cover Photo by David Leveque on Unsplash

Chapter 1

Rook Barretto was good looking and he knew it. His olive skin and wavy black hair were a gift from his Italian mother. At five foot ten, he was not particularly tall, but he commanded respect as a result of the limitless confidence that exuded from every pore of his carefully crafted physique. He probably inherited the confidence from his father. That probability was difficult to determine with any certainty. His father walked out before Rook’s second birthday and hadn’t been heard from since. 

He leaned against the door of the shabby apartment belonging to his right-hand man, Milo Bishop. He resisted entering any further for fear of contracting some communicable disease, or less seriously, soiling his freshly pressed Balenciaga trousers. The Berwin Apartments, built in 1914, were on Henry Street. Time and neglect had taken a toll on the old building like most of the Detroit neighborhood in which it rested. The plaster had fallen off the walls in one spot revealing the lath beneath. The decaying appearance reminded Rook of rib bones extruding from a rotting corpse; a scene with which he was not all that unfamiliar. The worn carpet was threadbare. The only thing holding it together was likely the layers of surface grime accumulated over the years. Rook forced himself not to think about it.

On a couch so full of stains that it resembled a leopard skin sat Milo, who had requested the meeting, and Milo’s underling, Bucky Deekins. Milo, by far the larger of the two, opened the conversation.

We need to send a message Rook. That bastard Luther been personally using our dope. To make up for the difference, he been cutting our product and repackaging it. The customers been bitching about the potency. I warned his ass more than once and now instead of cutting it, he’s taking what he needs, selling the rest and shortin’ us on the money. The last time I beat his sorry ass to a pulp but he short again yesterday. No way we ever gonna get our money so I say we cap him now as an example for the other dudes.

Dat right, chirped Bucky. Cap his ass. As usual, Bucky found it impossible to come up with an original thought, so he just parroted Milo.

We gotta demand respect, continued Milo. We let Luther slide and pretty soon they all be holdin’ out.

Damn straight, added Bucky right on cue.

Milo had been running Rook’s street operation for the last three years. He was a huge man standing six feet three, with dark skin, and weighing close to three hundred pounds. He was big enough and ruthless enough to strike fear into the hearts of the lower level minions.

Bucky, on the other hand, was the exact opposite. At five foot four, pasty white, and one hundred and thirty pounds soaking wet, the only respect he commanded was that which was cast by Milo’s formidable shadow. Bucky’s sole redeeming characteristic was his unflagging loyalty. He did whatever Milo asked him to do without question. He was one of the few people in the loosely structured organization that Milo completely trusted.

Rook pushed himself off the doorjamb. How sure are you that Luther is a lost cause? The query was directed at Milo.

Positive.

You sure this ain’t just some private beef you got with him?

Hell no, responded Milo indignantly. The dude be a lost cause.

OK, said Rook. How you going to do it? 

Milo leaned forward on the couch and lowered his voice for no apparent reason. We wait for the street to be deserted late at night. Luther always be hanging out till all hours gettin’ high. We just wait for him to stumble on home and we blast his ass somewhere along the way to his crib.

What about security cameras? asked Rook. Make sure one of them don’t catch you.

Not a problem, assured Milo. We know where they are.

All right, agreed Rook. Make sure it’s clean and let me know when it’s done.

Will do, said Milo.

Will do, Mr. Rook, chimed Bucky.

With that issue settled, Rook turned and exited the apartment. He couldn’t get out of there fast enough. He glanced around to see if anyone had noticed his presence. He was the only one in the dreary unlit hallway that smelled faintly of urine and vomit. He fought off the gag reflex as he quickly navigated the two flights of stairs and slipped out of the building. The fresh air was a welcome relief and he filled his lungs. A drunk was sleeping it off on the sidewalk. Rook stepped around him and easily passed by undetected. He made his way to his Mercedes, climbed inside and drove off.

It was a short ride to Rook’s loft. It was located not far from Ford Field, where the Detroit Lions played, Comerica Park, home of the Tigers, and the Little Caesars Arena where the Red Wings skated. These three venues had been built close to one another in the last several years and had inspired other redevelopment, gentrification, and a steady stream of residents returning to the city. Although the distance between the hell hole that Milo called home and the upscale area where Rook lived was only a few blocks, it was like going from East Berlin to West Berlin before the wall came down. Rook rolled the driver’s side window down to enjoy the cool evening air typical of early June. Abandoned houses flashed by like so many matchsticks. Most had been stripped of copper, furnaces, plumbing and anything else of value. Many were shooting galleries where the denizens of the street nodded off in squalid semi-consciousness. Occasionally, a house would be illuminated and residents could be seen within, going about their daily routine, pretending there was hope for their sad block in an otherwise forgotten neighborhood. Pedestrian traffic was minimal at this time of night and those that were out and about you didn’t want to have coffee with. They would stare at the Mercedes with hateful eyes as it quickly passed. Rook was not intimidated.

As Rook made his way home, the neglected, ramshackle neighborhoods gave way to upscale lofts, quaint coffee shops, trendy restaurants, and chic watering holes. It was like crossing an invisible line between darkness and light.

Rook thought about Luther as he drove. He never met Luther. His philosophy was to remain as remote from his underlings as possible. He was well aware that most of the guys in his street distribution chain were themselves users, and couldn’t be trusted to keep his identity secret if they got picked up by the cops. But they couldn’t reveal what they didn’t know. He worked through Milo and Milo, in turn, handled the day to day activities. So, if Milo said that Luther had to go, then Luther had to go. Maintaining discipline on the streets was critical. As the old saying goes, ‘a chain is only as strong as its weakest link’. He didn’t feel sorry for Luther. Luther was obviously one of those unfortunate weak links riding the addiction roller coaster until that one sure day when an overdose would send him careening off the tracks into oblivion. It was going to happen eventually as sure as the sun was going to rise tomorrow. Milo was actually doing Luther a favor by putting him out of his misery. Like shooting a horse with a broken leg. Mercy killing. Some people just beg to be eliminated. If one looks at it objectively, it is for the overall good of society.

So long Luther, Rook whispered to himself through a pompous smirk. You brought this on yourself.

Chapter 2

The cheap plastic nameplate on the desk said Abigail Stoneman. Abby to most people. Abigail to her mother. Stoney to a few close high school friends that she rarely saw anymore. She pushed back from the desk with a frustrated sigh. Her computer monitor glared at her like her last boyfriend did when she dumped him. She reached under the desk and snapped off the switch on the power strip. Take that bitch, she muttered under her breath as the computer fan slowed to a stop and silence engulfed the office like the tide slowly overtaking a deserted beach. She glanced at the digital clock on the wall above and to the right of her small cubicle. 10:30 PM. Five and a half hours after quitting time. Once again, she was the last to leave the office. She was a systems analyst on a large software development project that was behind schedule as the due date crept closer like a silent locomotive. No one except Abby seemed to care. If I were the boss, she thought, I’d fire the whole lot of them. She knew that was a lie, of course. She wouldn’t have the guts to fire anybody even though she detested their lack of a work ethic. Once, after hearing of a postal worker on the evening news who showed up at work with liquor on his breath, vengeance in his eyes, and a rifle in his arms, Abby imagined that the postal employee probably worked with people like Abby’s co-workers. She fully understood.

She kicked off her practical but woefully unstylish flats and slipped on her Adidas running shoes. Her apartment was less than a half-mile from her Guardian Building office, but the running shoes made the walk much more comfortable. She was already planning her run for the next morning. She had been addicted to running ever since she first joined the cross-country team in high school. She routinely put in a good two or three miles winding her way through the streets of downtown Detroit early each morning before returning home to get ready for work. With the revitalization of the downtown area, the early morning streets held plenty of runners and walkers, mostly ignoring one another as they glided, plodded or stumbled their way through their daily ritual.

Once the Adidas were laced up tightly, Abby kicked the flats back under her desk. She extracted her purse from the bottom desk drawer, slung it over her shoulder, stood up, and headed for the door. She hadn’t bothered to bring a jacket because the temperature was predicted to be comfortable well into the evening. As bad as the winters were in Michigan, the summers could be absolutely delightful. This June day was one such example.

Abby exited the main office door and after making sure it locked behind her, made her way to the elevator. The gloomy silence in the dimly lit hallway caused a feeling of uneasiness. She told herself that she was being ridiculous, but she nonetheless quickened her pace. The only sound was the faint squeaking of her running shoes on the tile floor. She glanced around self-consciously as she pressed the elevator button. While she waited, she glanced at herself in the mirror on the wall beside the elevator. Her auburn hair, parted in the middle, fell straight on the back and sides, stopping just above her shoulders. She had picked the style for ease of maintenance, although she was not at all dissatisfied with the way it framed her thin face. Her large brown eyes were accented by a touch of eye shadow and mascara, Abby’s one capitulation to the slavery of makeup. She rarely wore lipstick, believing that it was far more trouble than it was worth. Her overall appearance was easy on the eyes, but plain. On those rare occasions when she actually made an attempt to look nice; when she used foundation, powder, blush, and lipstick; when she combed her hair and wore high heels; she actually amazed herself with how good she could look.

Today was clearly not one of those days. The black slacks and a black cotton blouse covering her five-foot four-inch frame looked anything but attractive.

Appropriate, she thought, alone in this tomb in the middle of the night and dressed like Morticia.

At last the old elevator creaked to a stop and the doors slowly opened. Abby stepped inside, pressed the L button and the car labored into motion with a slight jolt. After dropping eleven floors, the elevator doors opened onto the opulent lobby of the Guardian Building. Massive arches supported a high, domed ceiling adorned with colorful and intricate Pewabic tile designs in the Mayan Revival style. Similar designs graced the walls and floor. Built in the late 1920’s Art Deco era, the materials and craftsmanship would today be cost-prohibitive. It amazed Abby how those who worked in the building so quickly became immune to its overwhelming beauty. They walked through the lobby daily, never bothering to look up from their phones to appreciate the stunning art that surrounded them.

At 6 PM, when the lobby businesses closed for the day, the external building doors were locked to the outside. Anyone exiting the building could get out by pushing the door open, but could not get back inside without a security card to insert in the reader attached to the main door.

Abby stepped out of the building onto Griswold Street. The unexpected breeze tousling her hair was a welcome change from the stagnant office. Dark clouds hovered above the skyline. The ozone smell in the air promised eventual rain. She headed north towards home. Just before reaching Congress Street, she noticed a man more than a half-block away, headed toward her on the opposite side of the street. The man did not appear to notice her. His uneven, halting gait hinted of intoxication. Abby rarely felt threatened on her short walk home through the downtown streets of Detroit. The recent renaissance of the central city had increased the number of police patrols. Nonetheless, she took careful notice of the man staggering in her direction. She stepped closer to the building hoping for concealment in the deepening shadows.

With one eye, Abby watched the approaching man who remained oblivious to Abby’s presence. Relieved, she then focused on Congress Street coming up on her right. She had developed a habit of inspecting all roads and alleys carefully before crossing them lest some unsuspected danger, be it man or beast, spring at her from the darkness. Just then a blue sedan turned south off of Fort Street and made its way quickly along Griswold toward Abby. The driver and passenger appeared to be focused on the opposite side of the street where the staggering man was just reaching the corner. The car came to a halt directly parallel to the drunk, who then took a few steps toward the open passenger side window. The toothless grin that spread across his face made Abby think that he recognized the occupants of the sedan. Suddenly three sharp cracks rang out accompanied by bright flashes of light. The bullets tore into the man causing him to jerk hideously with each new explosion like a rag doll in the clenched teeth of a bulldog. The force propelled him backward against the building behind him. The grin was replaced by a look of total disbelief as his chest exploded in a sea of red. The man slowly slumped to the sidewalk, leaving a thin crimson streak that followed him down the building façade.

Abby gaped in horror. Her hand covering her mouth, she crouched down instinctively hoping to remain unnoticed. The driver of the car swiveled his head in all directions, obviously looking for witnesses. His eyes locked onto Abby. The driver turned to the passenger, said something and then pointed back at Abby. The passenger jumped out of the car, and leaning on the roof of the sedan for support, leveled a pistol in Abby’s direction. She remained frozen in fear as another flash exited the gun. The bullet shattered a brick above Abby’s head. Red dust rained down on her white shoes.

Now in a panic, Abby scrambled her way diagonally across Congress like a crab making a dash for the open sea. She stayed low in an attempt to avoid the expected gunfire. When she reached the corner of the Qube building on the other side of Congress, she was out of the gunman’s line of sight. Another bullet ricocheted off the bricks just as she reached safety. Realizing that the gunman would likely be after her, Abby jumped up and began sprinting down Congress toward Woodward. After a few steps, it was obvious that her purse was going to slow her down. She tossed it aside and kept running. Her track training came flooding back instinctively as her legs pumped in unison with her arms.

Just as she was reaching Woodward, she heard another pop. She didn’t see where the bullet went, but she also didn’t feel any pain. She kept going. She rounded the corner and headed north on Woodward. Without breaking stride, she crossed the street to Campus Martius Park and ducked behind the granite base of the Soldiers and Sailors Monument. She cautiously peeked back in the direction she had just come only to see her pursuer less than a block behind her. He didn’t appear to