The Tercet Deception

By Michael Wittmayer

Meet the unstoppable force. Meet the immovable object. Meet Abraham Hudson. Buckle your seatbelts for a journey back to a time and place when justice is once again delivered, not delayed, where there is no plea bargaining only pleading. Tough, smart, with a quick wit, quick fists and a quicker gun, Abraham Hudson, the detective's detective rights wrongs, settles scores and takes no prisoners. With a hand from friends, Hudson threads his way through a missing persons search that leads through a minefield of lies, fraud, theft, blackmail and murder. It's a search that leads from the seamy streets of Portland, aka "Little Beirut," Oregon to southeast England and the hallowed halls of the Abbey Church of St. Mary the Virgin. Hold on to your fedoras and watch out for falling bad guys as Abraham Hudson unravels a five hundred year old mystery along the way; a mystery dating back to King Henry VIII and set in motion by the execution of Anne Boleyn.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Nov 25, 2017
• ISBN: 9781387395644

Book preview

The Tercet Deception

THE TERCET DECEPTION

Michael Wittmayer

Copyright © 2017 by Michael Wittmayer

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned or distributed in any electronic form without permission.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

The cover photo is courtesy of pixabay.com. There are no known restrictions on its publication. The back cover photo is by Ann Judge Wittmayer.

Graphic design work and answers to all print questions large and small are thanks to my daughter Kelly Wigginton.

Special thanks to my wife, Ann, for all of her encouragement, proofreading and editing ultimatums. Without her help, this book would not have been possible.

October 8, 2017, First Printing

ISBN: 978-1-387-39564-4

DEDICATION

For Auntie May who just needed another good book to read.

For Fr. Gerald Buckley, O.P., walking

with the angels in the sky.

1

Bell Tower, Tower of London, May 19, 1536

The sounds coming from outside were unmistakable. It was time. He wasn’t surprised. Not after what had happened Sunday. That was two days ago now; an agonizing, tortuous and soul-searching two days. That was when Francis Weston, William Brereton, Mark Smeaton, Henry Norris and George Boleyn had died; friends all.

One by one they had been led to Tower Hill and the executioner’s axe. One by one they had been beheaded.

Boleyn had died first. Smeaton, a lute player and dancer in the Queen’s household, had been executed last. Each, like Thomas who now awaited final word of his own fate, had been accused of adultery with the Queen. And all had been innocent of that charge, not that it mattered. Well, all had been innocent, but him.

Thomas pulled himself up from his bed and moved to his cell window, a narrow inner alcove cut into the rough-hewn stone walls. Over six feet tall with a full mustache and a long flowing beard that extended down to his chest, this was a powerful, imposing giant of a man for his time.

From his vantage point high within the tower prison confines, he watched helplessly as the slight figure far below him boldly made her way through the gathered throng. She wore a loose, black and gray gown of damask trimmed in fur and crimson kirtle. The colors she wore held meaning; black, the color of death; crimson, the color of martyrdom.

Her long dark hair was pulled back under a gabled hood. An ermine cape was draped about her shoulders. Four female attendants and her chaplain, Matthew Parker, followed close behind as Anne Boleyn made her way from the tower’s royal apartments and down the path that led past Bell Tower, along the Great Hall and through Coldharbour Gate.

Some in the crowd were weeping. Some could be seen crossing themselves. Some reached out to touch her as she walked by.

Still others were clearly jubilant. This was not their queen. That had been Catherine of Aragon, Henry’s first wife of twenty-four years. And Catherine had died nearly six months ago now, banished and in disgrace, while Henry pursued an annulment to their marriage. It was all Anne’s fault, or so some reasoned.

Turning to her right, she made her way courageously through the growing crowd. She continued walking in a northerly direction along the western side of White Tower towards the black masked executioner who patiently awaited her.

She read from a prayer book as she walked, Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name…

Looking back over her shoulder and up, her dark eyes fought the early morning spring sunlight. For just an instant, he was certain she had seen him as he pressed against his prison bars high above. Their eyes had locked and they were both running free of the tower walls. Then the moment was past.

A crush of onlookers pressed in on either side of her. Sir William Kingsley, tower constable, and two hundred of the King’s bodyguards led the way. Thomas watched as Anne reached the four foot high scaffold draped in black, mounted the wooden steps and turned to face her countrymen.

They were all there. Those closest to the King were dutifully seated; Thomas Cromwell and Henry Fitzroy, the King’s illegitimate son. Anne’s uncle, Charles Brandon, the Duke of Suffolk and Henry Howard, the Earl of Surrey, had found their places. The mayor of London, members of the King’s council and representatives of the various guilds had mindfully cleared their calendars; their presence expected. It was an event not to be missed.

Anne took a deep breath to steady herself. She had been granted permission to address the crowd, now numbered at over a thousand. An unearthly silence filled the air.

Thomas strained to hear, his fingers tearing into the window’s bars.

"Good Christian people, I have come hither to die, for according to the law and by the law I am judged to die, and therefore I will speak nothing against it. I have come hither to accuse no man, nor to speak anything of that, whereof I am accused and condemned to die, but I pray God save the King and send him long to reign over you, for a gentler nor a more merciful prince was there never. And to me he was ever good, a gentle and sovereign lord.

And if any person will meddle by cause, I require them to judge the best. And thus I take my leave of the world and of you all, and I heartily desire you all to pray for me. O Lord have mercy on me, to God I commend my soul.

Thomas was not surprised. There had been no words of ill will towards her husband, the King, or last minute declaration of her innocence of adultery, incest and treason; the charges leveled against her. There was her daughter Elizabeth to consider. Just two years old, Anne had no doubt what her daughter’s fate would be if her words held any malice towards the King.

And with that, her aides stepped forward and gently helped her remove her mantle. She took off her necklace and rings, handed them to her ladies in waiting and tucked her hair into a white linen cap. She handed her executioner twenty pounds to ensure a merciful death, knelt down, leaned forward slightly from the waist, prayed and nervously awaited the blow that would end her life.

Oh Lord have mercy on me, to God I commend my soul. To Jesus Christ I commend my soul; Lord Jesus, receive my soul.

The crowd, as one, sank to their knees.

The executioner from Calais swung his sword once over his head to gather momentum. The sun flashed on the lethal edge of the polished steel as it hurtled suddenly towards its target.

Anne’s severed head hit the straw.

And as her executioner held up her head for all to see, as was the custom, there was no mistaking it; her lips were still moving in prayer. Thomas watched as Anne’s attendants wrapped the head and body in white cloth and carried them to the tower chapel.

There was nothing more to see. With a heavy sigh, he released his grip on the bars and returned to his bed. There were just the two of them left now; Richard Page also awaited his meeting with the executioner’s axe.

He wondered how long they had left. Would they do to them what they had done to Anne? They had told her to prepare for her execution on the morning of the eighteenth. At eight o’clock, the appointed hour, she was told her date with destiny had been moved to noon.

When that hour too had come and gone, she even began to think the King had decided to banish her to the countryside instead, as he had his first wife, Catherine of Aragon. She was horribly wrong. It was all done just to make her wait, to wonder, to hope; torture of a different sort.

Well, they were about to pay for that; Kingsley, Cromwell, the King, all of them. The wheels of rebellion had already been set in motion. Anne would be avenged. Her falsely accused lovers would be avenged; he alone among them guilty.

The Roman Catholic Church would once again reign supreme in England. And though Thomas wouldn’t be around to see it, he would die knowing that his homeland had been saved.

Twenty years of service. He had served as the King’s food taster, High Marshall of Calais, Commissioner of Peace of Essex, treasurer to the King’s chamber, been knighted and completed numerous diplomatic missions for the King. He had hunted with him, pitched quoits, bowls, jousted with him and had become a trusted friend. Had, that is, until the King had set his sights on Anne Boleyn.

And now, from his cell in Bell Tower, Thomas would kill him.

It took money to finance an uprising. Well, he may not have his freedom, but when it came to wealth he had more than enough to get the job done. And the best part of all, the ultimate irony of it all, was the money it would take to get that job done was the King’s.

Once Henry had made clear his intention to defy Rome and pursue Anne, Thomas had carefully and quietly truly amassed a king’s fortune. It had paid to be the treasurer to the King’s chamber and clerk of the King’s jewels. What he had taken was more than enough for his purposes.

Then, there was that chest of gold, silver and the three very special chests within the chest. Gold, silver and priceless religious artifacts that Henry had sent as a gift to Pope Clement VII along with his written plea that his marriage to Catherine be annulled. The gifts were intended as a gesture of goodwill between longtime allies and friends.

If they helped to grease the skids a bit to a Pope strapped for cash and besieged by Spain for aligning himself with France, so much the better. A three-foot-wide parchment signed by Henry and eighty-one noblemen and clergy of the realm drove the point home; warning of the extreme measures England would take if the King’s request was refused.

And Thomas, with Sir John Russell, had been directed by the King to ensure that the chest of gifts and request both reached Rome and the Pope safely.

Talk about timing. Along the way, Russell had been injured and had returned to London. Then Thomas had been captured by Spanish mercenaries in their sack of Rome; the treasure intended for the Pope taken.

Well, it could have been, if Thomas hadn’t arranged to have it stolen first. And he might even have escaped Spanish captivity too, if he had ever actually been captured in the first place.

What Henry didn’t know, hadn’t hurt him. The King had been happy to have his emissary back from Italy in one piece but furious at Spain for the loss of his property. As far as Henry knew, the gifts had become casualties of war.

Fortunately for Thomas, it all fit. Charles V, King of Spain and of the Holy Roman Empire, had more than a passing interest in the Pope’s decision, Henry’s request and that treasure bound for Rome. Catherine of Aragon was the Spanish King’s niece.

As to the Pope’s response to Henry’s appeal, it had been just what Thomas had hoped it would be. The Pontiff had emphatically forbid Henry from remarrying and threatened ex-communication if he did.

It was Henry’s response that had surprised him. Thomas should have seen it coming. No one told the King no. Henry broke off relations with Rome and declared himself the Supreme Head of the Church of England.

Well, defying the Pope was one thing. Defying the King, quite another. Those who had disagreed with Henry quickly found that out. Longtime friend and advisor Thomas More was just one of many close to the King who had supported the Catholic Church, saw the Protestant Reformation as heresy and steadfastly refused to accept the King as head of the Church of England.

Each would pay.

More had spent his last days in prison writing A Godly Meditation. His final work told of the faith More had in God; the hope and peace that faith had given him. It was a poem of prayer that also spoke of the forgiveness More had for his enemies.

There had been no last minute reprieve. When his final hour at last arrived, More went to his death in peace. He was beheaded on July 6, 1535.

Well, Thomas would go to his death in peace too. Revenge would be his.

He had to get word to his friend, Sir John Horsey; tell him where to find the gold, silver, precious gemstones and chest of gifts that had been prepared for the Pope that he had so carefully hidden. Horsey would get what was needed to Robert Aske at Gray’s Inn in London. Aske was already secretly raising support in Yorkshire, Northumberland, Durham, Cumberland, Westmoreland and other towns throughout the realm sympathetic to their cause.

And since any good plan needs a backup, he would make arrangements for that too. One way or the other, King Henry VIII would die and what the King had begun, undone.

Thomas Wyatt stood, moved to the small writing desk he had been mercifully left with, picked up the quill and turned it over thoughtfully in his hand. The barrel of the goose feather was strong, its nip was sharp. He opened his journal, dipped the feather in ink, tapped it once, now twice on the side of the inkhorn and began to write.

Who list his wealth and ease retain,

Himself let him unknown contain.

Press not too fast in at that gate

Where the return stands by disdain,

For sure, circa Regna tonat.

The high mountains are blasted oft

When the low valley is mild and soft.

Fortune with Health stands at debate;

The fall is grievous from aloft.

No reparation for one’s soul abates.

These bloody days have broken my heart.

My lust, my youth did them depart,

And blind desire of estate.

Who hastes to climb seeks to revert.

Sons and Servants follow their Savior’s fate.

The bell tower showed me such sight

That in my head sticks day and night.

There did I learn out of a grate,

For all favour, glory, or might,

No time for cares or tender love awaits.

By proof, I say, there did I learn:

Wit helpeth not defence too yerne,

Of innocency to plead or prate.

Bear low, therefore, give God the stern,

A last chaste work to soothe the fates.

He read what he had written. Horsey would figure it out. He looked his work over again, frowned, stared long and hard at the stone walls and scratched out the last lines of stanzas two through five. He added to the end of his poem’s last stanza, For sure, circa Regna tonat and to stanza two, And sure, circa Regna tonat.

Almost there, he said softly to himself. He dipped the tip of the quill in the ink again and added to the end of stanza three, Of truth, circa Regna tonat; and to stanza four, That yet, circa Regna tonat.

He looked his poem over one more time. Now for a title. Satisfied, he put down his quill and allowed himself to smile for the first time since he had been brought to Bell Tower. Yes, he thought to himself, that should do it. Circa Regna tonat, it thunders through the realms.

It wouldn’t be long now.

2

Portland, aka Little Beirut, Oregon, Present Day

It was going to be close. The unknown assailant he had been struggling with had broken loose. The man was stumbling to his feet, turning back towards him. He wasn’t coming alone either. He had a .44 special in his right hand this time. It wasn’t his, and that was the problem. It was McEwen’s.

He was about to get part of his gun back. Well, the bullets at least.

Now that wasn’t right. He was about to get shot with his own gun. His attacker had a perfectly fine gun of his own still tucked inside his belt. As he was getting to his feet, he had found McEwen’s piece where it had fallen during the fight. The hulking mass before him was smiling at his good fortune.

There still might be a chance. There just wouldn’t be a second one. McEwen had fallen back against the chain link fence. He swept his hand along the ground, his fingers closing around a loose chunk of concrete. He lunged up and forward, ramming the jagged mass directly along the side of the jaw of his attacker.

Bone crunched, the force of the blow tearing the periodontal ligaments that held the man’s teeth to the jawbone along the left side of his face and sending them tumbling backward into his mouth. The body went limp at McEwen’s feet in the gravel. The .44 fell out of his hand.

McEwen wiped the blood that was streaming down his face away. Damn it, he said aloud. He hurt everywhere.

He bent low, picked up his gun, pushed the muzzle into the unconscious man’s eye socket and fired. Let me give you your rights. Last rites, he said. He had just saved taxpayers a bundle. There would be no expensive long and drawn out trial and costly incarceration. There would be no early release and no new victims. The chances of recidivism, zero.

A clear case of self-defense if ever there was one, he muttered. "I did it for myself and it was right by de fence."

McEwen struggled to his feet and headed for the warehouse, there were more bad guys inside. Well, there wouldn’t be for long.

Brandy slipped a paper scrap between the pages of the book she was reading and pushed it to the corner of her desk. The dime store detective stories had been around forever. She was working her way through the classic McEwen series for the umpteenth time, in no particular order, half expecting something new to happen. Nothing new ever did.

And that was a good thing. She liked those old stories just the way they were.

The books never got old. Wrong was made right. Crime never paid. Bruised, battered and dead bad guys littered the pages as everyone’s favorite gumshoe solved the most difficult of cases. James Dayne McEwen, private eye, was legendary. And when McEwen was on the job, the job got done. McEwen didn’t cheat death. He beat it fair and square.

The phone rang once, twice, three times. Brandy let it ring twice more then, picking the wad of gum from her mouth, she answered, just as she had been instructed.

Hudson and Associates Investigations, can you hold please?

Then, Yes, he is in. He is on the other line. If you can hold just a moment, I can put you through.

She put the phone down, walked to the inner office, knocked softly and opened the door. The detective sat at what looked to be a very old, deeply polished mahogany desk. There was a narrow window directly behind him that led to a fire escape.

To his left was a solid wall of floor to ceiling books. An Atwater Kent Model-55 table top radio from the 1920s sat on one shelf. Otherwise, it looked impossible that another book could be added to the collection.

To Hudson’s right and just inside the door was a coat rack, and just beyond that, another doorway that connected to an inner conference room. To either side of that doorway two large portraits hung; sentinels from a bygone era. The stern, competent and reassuring looks of gray haired men in the twilight of their careers looked down from behind desks that very much resembled the one Hudson was seated at.

They bore a strong likeness to one another; brothers probably. Hudson and Associates founders, most likely. Then again, they might have been anyone; might have been anything. Hudson had no idea who they were. They did add to the image of a well-established firm though. His clientele found comfort in those old portraits.

Two low back, plush, padded black leather guest chairs were situated across from Hudson. There was an old Royal typewriter on one side of the desk; a lamp and black rotary dial phone on the other.

A call for you on line one, Brandy announced with just a hint of a smirk. Mr. Johnson. He did not say what it was concerning. He did laugh when I told him you were on the other line though, she added.

Well, there was no line two. With that old phone, they were lucky there was a line one. It came with the place, Hudson had explained, worked fine, and he saw no reason to replace it. Besides, he could only talk on one line at a time.

And Barry Pinky Johnson would know there was no other telephone line. He owned the building. Hudson’s office sat above the popular restaurant and lounge below, Pinky’s Place.

The price was right, that was for sure. The detective provided general security for the three-story building in exchange for a break on rent.

Pinky had inherited the joint. He could be found most days holding court behind the bar on the ground floor level, decked out in his trademark Hawaiian shirt and looking as if he was dressed bound for some exotic tropical vacation; bound for anywhere, but Portland. Hudson couldn’t recall a time when he had seen the restaurateur in the same colorful shirt twice.

Large screen televisions hung from every conceivable angle of Pinky’s Place; each tuned to one sporting event or another. Autographed action photos of anyone who was anyone in the world of sports adorned the walls. Display cases overflowing with memorabilia were everywhere.

Babe Ruth’s 1932 World Series called shot home run jersey, signed by the baseball great, hung in one case. Claimed by other collectors over the years, this one, valued at over $950,000, was the real thing. It was signed by the Babe himself.

Beside it, simply framed, was a rare Honus Wagner baseball trading card from 1909. Only fifty to seventy of the T206 series cards were printed. The latest auction for one brought in a cool 2.8 million. A little to the right hung a beat up old Tad Davis wooden tennis racket autographed by the Chilean great, Alfredo Isaac.

Signed boxing gloves worn by George Foreman and Muhammad Ali hung in another case. A three by five card identified the gloves from the 1974 Rumble in the Jungle, Kinshasa, Zaire, historic fight. There was even a shelf with a complete set of twenty-four hardbound Clair Bea, Chip Hilton books that looked as if they had never been read.

Priceless souvenirs from days gone by were everywhere. Golf, tennis, football, basketball and racing gear from every major event was represented. Well, except soccer. Pinky hated soccer.

Identical memorabilia could be found in private collections and various halls of fame across the country. The difference was, the priceless relics in Pinky’s Place were the real McCoy.

There was a story behind each, and Pinky was always willing to share one. Well, for a beer. What he wasn’t always so eager to share was how he managed to get his hands on all that stuff.

The place was a cash cow. There was just one thing. Pinky wasn’t all that crazy about being a landlord and small business owner, even it was at one of the hottest spots in town. He didn’t dislike what he was doing. He just wanted something more.

He wanted what was on the other side of the fence; in this case, up the staircase on the second floor. He wanted to be a private eye, a gumshoe, a dick, a shamus, a peeper, a hawkshaw. Well, a Hudson.

He was constantly after his upstairs tenant to bring him in on cases. And from time to time, Hudson did exactly that. Pinky was six feet two inches and 230 pounds of enough muscle to come in handy.

Pinky had a concealed carry permit, didn’t ask a lot of questions, like whether there was a good chance of being shot or not, and was always ready to go.

Otherwise, Hudson and Associates Investigations was a one man show. That associates tag was intended to make the business look just a little big bigger; a little more established; a little more old money.

It wasn’t that the detective couldn’t have learned to tolerate a partner or two. There was just barely enough business to support himself. Besides, he worked better alone. Having a partner would mean having to listen to someone else. That had never been a strong suit.

So, what was up? Was Pinky looking to collect on a bet? They had big bucks riding on most major sporting events. Bets were capped at one dollar and fifty cents; just enough to cover a hotdog and a coke at the local big box store. Hudson was down three hotdogs. What was always more important were the bragging rights for coming out on top. Those wins were priceless.

Hudson took the call, listened for a few minutes, jotted down a few notes then said, So, I just run by her place, make a couple of calls, find out what happened, and we’re all square?

Hudson paused, You do know, he continued, I get one hundred dollars an hour plus expenses, right? So I spend a few hours, at least, tracking this person down, and I no longer owe you three hotdogs; four dollars and fifty cents? Sounds reasonable. No. You can’t come along.

He hung up, pushed his chair back and started for the outer office. Most private investigators had an automatic case set up fee. And few took on cases that weren’t projected to last more than an hour or two; at least, not without a minimum four hour service charge. Hudson had never drawn those lines. Besides, this would knock off a couple of hot dogs hanging over his head. It would be worth it.

Brandy was ahead of him. She had his overcoat and hat in her hand before he reached the coat rack next to the inner office door.

That retainer agreement for the Stoughton’s Stop & Shop grocery chain is in. It just needs your signature. I can send their copy back in the afternoon mail, she said, then I’ll get back to work on the…the, she was searching for the word.

Rolodex, Hudson offered.

Yes. The rolodeck, she repeated.

He didn’t try to correct her.

How will I reach you?

You can’t. I’ll check in.

He didn’t carry a cell phone and prided himself on the fact. There were no computers in his office. Technology topped out at that old radio, typewriter and phone. He would never be hacked. His Rolodex was encrypted. Brandy was learning his system.

It wasn’t that Hudson didn’t know about the latest in electronic gadgets coming down the line. He did. In fact, there were few who worked in the industry who knew more about what was available out there, how things worked, how to fix them and how to make them fail than he did.

He just happened to believe that the direct approach was more effective, more efficient. While Pinky was constantly after him to check out the latest in long-range listening and tracking devices or lock-pick kits to get at needed information, Hudson’s methodology was simpler.

If a reluctant subject had information he needed, there was no need to spend hours waiting with some remote speaker device for his target to spill the beans. There was no need to spend hours monitoring some computer or cell phone screen for person, package or cargo location details in the form of SMS signals or text messages.

Instead, you just cornered your subject, asked once then choked the information out of him. People told him what he wanted to know because they were afraid of what he would do them if they didn’t. Defeating the best of secured sites was no less complicated; simply break a window, bust a lock or drill a hole through a wall or floor. If you’re going to be the bear, you might as well be the grizzly.

Brandy Flood was working out great. She had been on the job just three weeks now. He hadn’t expected to find anyone to take the place of Emma. He was still in withdrawal. Well, it’s like that when you work with someone a long time. Emma had known what he needed done and what he was going to say before he did. He had agreed to interview the girl only as a favor to his retiring secretary. The kid was turning out to be too good to be true. She was willing to kill for the job too. Literally.

And though she had made it clear she was happy in the secretarial role Hudson had offered, grateful for the opportunity, her dream was to become more involved. She had diligently and successfully chipped away at the requirements for her own private investigator’s license following school and a stint in the Army. If he ever needed help, she had said, she wanted to be ready.

She could shoot, too. Jerry Miculek’s thousand yard world record shot with a nine millimeter Smith and Wesson was safe. But that was only because Brandy hadn’t been in the contest. Hudson had seen her himself shut the eye of a buffalo on the head of a nickel, at nearly the same distance.

The kid was sharp and confident. Was she tough, fearless and resourceful enough to make it out on the street? Hudson wondered. At just about five feet eight inches tall, with her shoulder length long dark hair and trim, athletic good looks, she looked more like a fashion model. Brandy was easy on the eyes.

There was no denying he could use the added help from time to time. Still, he didn’t need a partner, didn’t want a partner. He really needed the kid right where she was; behind the desk.

You want I should clean your bullets before you leave, Brandy deadpanned.

Hudson ignored her. She had a smart mouth. They would be getting along fine. He slipped into his rumpled black trench coat, pulled the brim of his black fedora down low over his forehead, gave the brim a tug and headed for the door.

Do you think you might get to shoot some bad guys today? she called after him.

Hudson took the stairs down to the first floor level two at a time, nearly reached the bottom and froze. Muffin! His mind must have been wandering.

Pinky’s German shepherd was the bar mascot during the day and worked building security at night; the mutt was Hudson’s unofficial and not always so silent partner. He had the run of the building. At nearly thirty inches tall and an intimidating ninety pounds, Muffin took no prisoners.

And while the dog was a great big pussy cat around Pinky’s customers, kids and the building’s other tenants, Hudson, the dog had decided, was fair game. The detective stood about as much chance of making it to the doorway in one piece, as a squirrel had, with one bad leg, crossing Burnside during rush hour without being flattened. Hudson wasn’t going anywhere without paying the price.

The black and tan mutt had staked out the stairway. Its ears stood straight, pale yellow eyes blazed, its tongue was curved, its teeth bared; all the classic warning signs of an attack. He was daring Hudson to make a move to the exit without his permission. The sounds of a menacing, deep growl echoed from the foot of the stairs to emphasize the point.

Hudson’s hand shot to his right coat pocket. Three biscuits left. He would have to remember to stock up. It was that, or add a couple more clips to the spare he already carried for his gun.

I give, you little thief. Hudson flipped the treat high across the foyer.

The dog timed his leap perfectly and snatched it out of the air before it hit the ground. He was rolling it around in his mouth, checking it before eating it. Yep; Curley’s Bakery Snacks with turkey and butternut squash. Hudson was free to go. He had paid his toll.

When Muffin was in the area of that entryway, there was no way in or out without coughing up one of those treats. Well, no way for Hudson. Everyone else was able to come and go freely during regular building hours, greeted by the mutt with a wag of his tail, a friendly sniff and a playful nuzzle.

Hudson shook his head in disgust. The dog was spoiled rotten. Curley’s was the only brand of treat he would go near. Hudson had tried others but Muffin wasn’t having any of it. The detective had long ago made it a practice to keep a bag of the things in the trunk of his car and another in his office. A fourteen ounce sack of forty of those little bribery sticks set him back six bucks. Well, the dog would kill for him. Hudson had no doubt about that. It just wasn’t about to do it without a treat.

Patricia Merritt’s Crib, Monday Morning

Hudson pulled his Chevy Impala alongside the oak tree lined street and parked. He double-checked the address Pinky had given him, slid out of the car and made his way to the run down Victorian style home’s front door. With luck, he would get to it before a sudden gust of wind came along and toppled the place.

He never had a chance to knock. The door swung open with a bad horror movie shriek before he reached the top step.

The sign says… the matronly figure who filled the doorway, cigarette in nicotine stained fingers, was pointing to the metal sign that hung cockeyed below the house numbers, prohibiting solicitations. Next to it was a Beware of Dog sign and an NRA sticker with a picture of an assault rifle and the words, Black Guns Matter.

Odds were there was no dog; there was no gun. Most homes with signs like that usually had neither.

The figure at the door in the purple and red flowered print dress, unfastened black robe with what looked like gold straps over the shoulders, didn’t finish her sentence. She had caught the look in Hudson’s eye. It was a practiced, effective look. It said, I’m going to ask you a question then choke the life out of you, not necessarily in that order.

Patricia Merritt. She has a room here?

Did have. She’s gone now. She…

Landlady?

Yeah. Evelyn…

He didn’t wait for the full introduction from those bright red lips that looked as if they had been painted with a spatula. Take me to her room.

You can’t… she didn’t finish. He was already walking past her. The distinct smell of alcohol was heavy in the air. He was pretty certain it wasn’t coming from him.

Which room is hers?

Second floor, first room on the right. She fell in step behind him.

There was no need to have his reluctant shadow get a key. The door was unlocked.

There was no sign that anyone had lived there. A bed, battered chest of drawers, nightstand, lamp, desk, chair, a smaller lamp and bookcase came with the room. Apparently, they had stayed with it too. Tenants shared kitchen and bath facilities, dining and living room areas.

He pulled out the nightstand drawers, turned the stand upside down and did the same with the desk and dresser, inspecting each carefully. He tossed the bed and checked around