Could Satan Be Your Next-Door Neighbor?: A Breathtaking Murder Mystery Novel

By Roland Hopkins

This is a spine-tingling novel that will keep you on the edge of your seat until the final prayer.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Aug 27, 2018
• ISBN: 9781546250197

Roland Hopkins

Roland (Rolly) Hopkins is a successful newspaper publisher whose background (way back) included Lay preaching, and he came very close to becoming a fulltime minister. Instead, he spent five years as a radio disc jockey, successfully feeding and clothing a wife and three children. Fun, fun, fun. Much more fun than publishing a deadlined weekly newspaper. He also dabbled in professional horse racing, winning (as an owner) over 300 races and having a horse nominated for the Kentucky Derby (the dream of every owner, breeder and and trainer). More fun, fun, fun, but no profit. profit, profit. Rolly’s real passion was and is writing fiction, and this book is his latest attempt at new fun.

Book preview

PROLOGUE

Richard Blade was a security guard with a Private Eye license, although he’d used it only a few times, years ago. The owner of the cheap nightclub where he worked asked him to do an occasional comic intro for the attractive topless dancers, who were the popular main attraction. If you don’t excel at one job, why not have a few?

Blade, a forty-four-year-old 1990–1992 Gulf War veteran, had enlisted at age eighteen, thinking that since there were no wars in sight, he’d easily and safely serve two years and be eligible for the GI Bill, which would help him financially to attend college. The day after he enlisted, Iraq attacked Kuwait, and the USA, along with Rick Blade, was off to the Middle East to protect Kuwait and its oil.

He was wrong about wars, but right about college. After the Gulf War ended in 1992, Rick did take advantage of the GI Bill and spent one year at Boston University, although he flunked a few courses.

People who knew Blade labeled him as the quintessential loser. Nice guy but a loser. But in the army, Rick learned how to be rough, tough, and brave and to shoot a gun. Could I use any of those talents to make a living? he asked himself.

CHAPTER

1

My dad, Sharpie Blade, had been a fair heavyweight prizefighter with what sports writers called a glass jaw. When he got hit there—lights out. He once lasted three rounds and my dad never fought again. He then took a job at a Massachusetts’s nightclub called Blinky’s. His idol was Rodney Dangerfield, who he considered the funniest comic in history. I don’t remember ever meeting my purportedly beautiful mother. When I was just two years old, my father, who never got home before one in the morning, caught a lousy cold and came home early to find my mother in bed with the milkman. They divorced, and he got custody of me. I never asked if she got visitation rights, mainly because I don’t remember seeing her in the first place. To this day, I don’t know what happened to her. I asked once, but the look on my father’s face suggested that I shouldn’t ask again.

Last year, Sharpie caught a real bad cold that turned into pneumonia. At age seventy-one—with his boxing years way behind him, but his comic stuff still active—he passed away. I cried. He had been my father, my mother, and my idol. I had yet to do anything that he could have been proud of. Bye, Dad.

I stand almost six feet tall and weigh in at two hundred pounds of muscle. Got all that from my father but never dreamed of following in his fight footsteps. I spent two years as a senior in high school and only one year in college. In other words, I was not a good student. Actually, I wasn’t really good at anything.

Blinky’s topless club was open six nights a week, and I was the full-time bouncer/security guard.

Several years ago I answered some dumb computer ad promoting a new Private Eye school. My father lent me two thousand dollars, and I attended, along with twenty-five other suckers. Six hours a day for five weeks we were taught by so-called legitimate private detectives. Was I a young sucker? I took it seriously and graduated along with seven others. What happened to the other eighteen? Maybe they were smarter than me and realized that the whole thing was a scam, but what the hell? I did receive a document that looked legitimate and indicated I was now a private detective, along with a nice, shiny metal badge saying the same thing. I immediately ran a small advertisement in the Boston Herald, and believe it or not, one week later, I was hired by a woman who wanted me to follow her husband and take a few pictures of a certain lady in his office after hours. I did what I was told and got a pic of her husband giving the secretary a kiss good night on the way out the door an hour after closing time. I got paid two thousand dollars, which I gave to my father, making us even. My goal was to always be even and never owe anything to anyone. I did several more jobs like that one but never got paid anywhere near what the first lady paid me. Finally, I decided to concentrate on just being a security guard.

I’ve always been told that I resembled a young Burt Reynolds. Too bad he got old. Too bad I’m getting old. Too bad my father died, leaving me a box full of his old jokes but no money and without telling me who or where my mother was. Did I care? Not really. Well, maybe a little.

I’m forty-four years old and work six nights a week for Blinky. I still have the PI license, but I never use it. I did save a pistol from my two-year army service, but I don’t remember where I hid it.

Right now it’s late night, and I’m heading home from my security guard job at Blinky’s Nightclub in Revere, Massachusetts.

Forest Hills MBTA storage yards, I told the cabby. I leaned back and closed my eyes. My car was out of gas, so I had to take a cab. Did I say that I ain’t too smart?

The cabby stared at me in his rearview mirror. Hey, man, wasn’t your father a prizefighter back in the day?

I forced opened one tired eye. Yeah. Why?

I’ve seen him. He used to be pretty good. Sharpie Blade. Right?

That’s him. He’s passed away last year.

Sorry. I saw him at Blinky’s too, doing his corny jokes. I laughed. He was funny. I thought about being a comic once. Where did he get all those funny one-liners? Pretty clever, if you ask me.

My father was a good comic, and most of the one-liners were his. A good one-liner never gets old. Ever heard of Rodney Dangerfield?

Who hasn’t? He was in that funny golf movie.

He really was my father’s idol, I said, along with Muhammad Ali.

The cabby shut up for the rest of the trip—I think I’d started to snore—and finally dropped me off at the trolley yards on the outskirts of Boston, where I lived in a very big, remodeled old wooden trolley car. I rubbed my tired eyes.

What’s the damage, man? I asked, reaching into my wallet and removing some twenty-dollar bills—most were tips from members of the audience who’d had a bit too much to drink. I loved that crowd because they appreciated it when I helped them to their autos. Occasionally, I insisted on driving a drunk home. Then I received a really good tip.

The driver clicked off his meter and read it. Seventeen, he said. Prices have gone up.

Yeah, I know, I said. Oil crunch. I handed the cabby a twenty. Keep the change. I got paid tonight.

I glanced at my stupid Fit Bit watch. It told time but also how many steps I had walked that day, along with my heart rate—like I really needed to know that crap. My latest girlfriend had given it to me; she liked to give me gifts. We broke up last week because she said I worked too late at night and slept most of the day. At forty-four, you might think I’d be talking about my wives, or at least my wife. But I have never met what I call the right girl. Or the right girl has never felt I was the right guy. What do the kids say nowadays? Whatever.

I fumbled in my pocket for a key to the gate, which usually was covered by one security guard patrolling the trolley yards but spending most of his time watching TV or asleep. Who would want to rob the empty trolley cars? I asked myself many times. They weren’t all empty, of course. For the past five years I’d resided in the renovated trolley. It didn’t have to move anymore, and neither did I. It featured a nice bedroom and a small bathroom, along with my tiny office, a small living room, and a kitchenette. It boasted thick drapes, running water, and heat. Some carpenter had done a nice remodeling job.

I made my way into the back part of the trolley yards. It was dark. I didn’t see the security guard. My trolley door was unlocked; I never locked it. The TV was on in the living room, so I knew I had a visitor. It was my old school chum, Reverend Sullivan.

Bored saving souls? I said upon my entrance. Haven’t seen you for an entire week. Sorry I skipped church. I lost track of days, even though I don’t drink alcohol or smoke weed. I should have phoned you. I ran out of gas tonight and took a cab home. How’s the God business?

Sully smiled and shook his head. I’m sure if you wanted, you could latch on to a better-paid bouncer job, he said. And you don’t spend any time on your PI business. You have a legitimate license to practice, and you never use it. I checked it out for you, and it is actually real. That school didn’t lie. There certainly isn’t any future in being a security guard. Maybe you don’t want to leave your job because you enjoy the topless dancers. Am I right?

Reverend Sully had been my best friend since high school. We both starred on the football team—local champions for three years in a row. He got a scholarship to college and then a tryout with the New England Patriots. He made the squad and then decided to become a Minister. I was offered the same type of scholarship to college but flunked too many courses and was asked to repeat my senior year in high school. That’s when my smart brain decided I should enter the army. Sully’s smart brain was beginning his new future Minister career at Bangor Seminary, way up in Maine.

The two-year Gulf War ended on February 28, 1992, and when I got home from serving, Sully was a full-time Minister in a nearby town, and I would attend church at least once a month to see him. I didn’t like or believe in confession or much else in the Bible. So he dropped by once a week for lunch and to lecture me, thinking it was a help. Just between you and me, it really was. My life had been a mess for forty-four years and would have been worse without his advice, even though I never took it.

Sully sat up in one of my uncomfortable wooden kitchen chairs. He had helped himself to a sandwich and brought his own beer. What better best friend could a person have than a Minister? If I was ever going to heaven, he would lead the way. He began his usual lecture. You mean to tell me that the only reason you keep your security job is because of the naked women? Don’t you think it’s time that you grew up and went out on your own? Practice something that you can grow with, become good at, and help others.

Like become a Minister? I sniped.

No. Hey, I had a chance to be a pro football player. But something told me that I was meant to help people solve their day-to-day problems and maybe walk the path that Jesus suggested so many times, over and over again.

Treat your neighbor like you would like your neighbor to treat you, I said. Can you imagine what the world would be like if people did that? I decided that maybe I could help in my small way to head us in that direction, being altruistic and being caring and sharing, by guarding a late-night parking lot. I’ll bet you that I drive home at least twenty bombed people a week. That’s where I make my real dough. Drunks pay well.

You’re wasting a possible good life, he lectured. You never married; you never really made much of a living as a bouncer. I’ve told you many times that you should take advantage of your PI license. Trust me; I know that the Lord would appreciate you helping people in need of help, not the drunks or topless chicks at Blinky’s club. He stopped verbally beating me up and took a sip of a cold coffee. I want you to try being a PI, he said. That will be helping others, and I think you’d be good at that. I have a feeling it would change your entire life. I see you helping others. I’ve always seen you helping others, and that’s why I keep bugging you.

I checked my watch and realized that at two in the morning, neither one of us was going to get a good night’s sleep if we kept babbling. Now let’s both get some sleep, he said.

CHAPTER

2

I woke up late and made my favorite breakfast—Kellogg’s Raisin Bran, a muffin, and some fresh fruit, along with decaf coffee. It was always my best meal of the day. My father had told me that it was very healthy, so I started off healthy. Sully had gone home at two thirty, so I got no breakfast lectures.

Later today I would be the bouncer. The early crowd would be sparse, and my later evening job was basically to see that the horny patrons behaved themselves during the entertainment and after the evening was over. Sometimes a drunk might wait in the parking lot, thinking he was going to score with one of the girls. That was unacceptable.

Good evening, ladies and germs, Blinky, the club owner, greeted the audience. I’d call you ladies and gentlemen, but you already know what you are. My wife recently made me join a bridge club. I jump off next Tuesday. Bridge club. Bridge. Get it? After the explanation he earned a few laughs. Then he told his favorite. A funny thing happened to me on the way to the club tonight. A bum came up to me and said he hadn’t had a bite in a week.

A heckler yelled out from the audience. So you bit ’im. Right?

The crowd clapped—a little.

Sounds more like they’re clapping with one hand, I thought.

Bring on the girls, another heckler yelled. Your humor sucks.

The mostly male audience came to see the girls, not hear stupid jokes. But Blinky always welcomed the crowd with about five minutes of humor. Hey, it was his club. My father, who was actually a professional comic, usually joked around for ten minutes before introducing the topless dancing girls.

This evening progressed, with the girls—each with a different but weak entertaining shtick—ending up with no garments on other than a smile and a tiny thong. They all climbed and caressed a pole. The crowd was free with their money, throwing it onto the stage. I always had a spot next to the stage and exit door, making sure no one tried to climb onto the stage, and I could also see the entire parking lot.

Tonight, as I checked my watch about twenty minutes after closing, I scanned the dimly lit parking lot one last time before going home. I had brought a large gas can with me and put it in my trunk so I would never need a cab again. Maybe I was getting smart in my old age.

I thought I heard a woman sobbing. Only a few cars remained, other than employees. I walked to the far corner of the lot, farthest away from the main street. Two late-model SUVs were parked against an adjacent four-story office building. Maybe someone’s working late, I thought.

I quietly approached the first car, a classy white Toyota.

I’m not allowed to fraternize with the patrons, a women’s terrified voice whimpered. Please leave me alone.

I always carried a stun gun but used it only in extreme circumstances. My fists usually did the trick. I had learned enough defensive and offensive moves in the Gulf War and from my father that I could take care of myself without getting hurt. I walked into the view of the two people and saw it was one of the new girls, a very well-endowed one, and an ultra-large man, who was grappling with her, attempting to force her into his SUV.

That’s enough, I barked at the man. Get lost, and you’ll stay out of trouble.

The gorilla roughly pushed her out of the way and took a step toward me. He was about my height but outweighed me by at least thirty pounds of muscle. He resembled a New England Patriots linebacker. Maybe he is.

Screw off, asshole, the gorilla said. This is my girl. I found her before you.

I’ll give you one more chance, Mac. Take off now, and I’ll forget I ever met you. And by the way, you’re banned from the club.

The gorilla, well oiled with alcohol, rushed into my basic training one/two—a left to the stomach and a quick hard right to the jaw. My two years in Iraq weren’t totally wasted. The gorilla went down. He seemed to bounce on the pavement.

He’ll be out for a few minutes, I said to the girl. And he won’t bother you again.

I opened the gorilla’s car door, picked the guy up, dragged him into the driver’s seat, and closed the door.

Why don’t I drive you home? I said to the female. I don’t know your name, but I know you’re new here. Don’t worry. This won’t happen every night.

She said nothing, just stood there shivering all over.

I put a reassuring arm around her shoulders and led her to my car, a small two-seater, white sports car convertible.

She didn’t hesitate; she got in my side and slid across the seat. I got in, started the car, and slowly pulled out of the parking lot. We drove silently for a while. Then I said, It might help if you head me in the right direction.

She pushed her seat back in a reclining position. Do you believe in soul mates? she said in a sultry voice, appraising me out of the corner of her eye.

I didn’t answer. I’d never considered the possibility of soul mates; I wasn’t even sure what they were. Sully would know.

She fired up a flat, sweet-smelling cigarette and offered me a drag.

No thanks, kid. I’m uninhibited enough without that junk. I know that most of you girls are on something.

You don’t look like Sir Screwalot, she said.

I chuckled at her comment but kept my eyes on the road, although it was a difficult task since her short skirt had ridden up to the fringe on her silk panties.

I was just doing my job, I said. I’m the bouncer, you know.

I don’t want to go home now, she said, sitting up and grabbing my arm. Where do you live?

She’s high as a kite, I warned myself.

She had long hair, parted in the middle. Her face had a sparkling fake tan. She appeared to wear no makeup, except around her eyes, but she didn’t need any. Who the hell does she resemble? I asked myself.

Can we? Can we? she begged.

She resembled a famous movie actress, the late Liz Taylor.

Please? She didn’t let up. She wore a red velvet skirt and a tight sweater with plunging neckline. Most of the girls dressed sexy, even off the job. They thought they were dancers, at least they told everyone they were dancers.

We could stop someplace for a nightcap, Mr. … You didn’t tell me your name, she said, slurring her words.

I could tell that she had already reached her alcohol limit, and the pot didn’t help. I’ll just take you home. Most bars are closed. It’s late.

I drink Bailey’s, she said. It’s sweet and harmless, like moi. You didn’t tell me your name.

Richard Blade, I said. You can call me Richard Blade.

She stared for a long moment, studying my face. I like the dimple in your chin, Richard. And I like blue eyes. And you look like Burt Reynolds. And I like Burt Reynolds. Do you like Burt Reynolds?

I like Burt Reynolds, but he’s getting old.

I’m only twenty, she said and puffed. But I’ll be twenty-one next month. You won’t tell anyone, will you? They’d probably fire me. I still get carded in bars.

A beautiful, sexy, underage kid, I thought. But in most states, age of consent is sixteen. Go figure. And she never told me where she lives.

We drove several blocks from the club into one of the Hull Beach condo areas, and she allowed me to drive past them through a few ocean towns before I realized I was being taken for a ride.

Lost? she asked and began to chuckle.

I’m running out of gas driving you around, I answered, starting to get irritated. I’m no chauffeur or Uber. I could hear a bit of anger in my voice. What would Sully say or do, I thought.

Why don’t we just go to your place and talk, like I suggested earlier? she said in a breathy voice. I think I maybe knew you in a past life. Do you believe in past lives or karma?

I shrugged in frustration. Reverend Sully occasionally talked about past lives and future lives—like, we have all lived before and keep coming back until we get it right.

Look, doll, if you knew me better, you’d know I have trouble believing in this life, let alone past ones. Why don’t I just drop you off at your house? Your mommy and daddy are probably waiting up for you.

Small tears formed in her wide blue eyes. I don’t have a mommy and daddy. She slid closer and put her head on my shoulder. One drink, and then I’ll leave you alone. Promise, she said in a pleading voice. I like your dimple.

She’s nuts, I thought. But she’s a knockout. Maybe she’s a hooker. I got nothing to lose unless I find out that she’s only fifteen. I’m broke. Owe money. Still interested? I asked.

She nodded and kept her head on my shoulder.

I checked my iPhone. One thirty in the morning. Past my bedtime. We drove back to my trolley place, and I helped her half-asleep form into my dwelling. I really was becoming interested in her. I’ve been engaged three times but never married. All three were nice women, but when they found out I was a loser, they thanked me for the relationship and waved goodbye.

When we were inside, I deposited her on my long couch that was covered with small throw pillows.

This is cool. She burped, coughed, and giggled. Amazing what you can do with an old trolley car.

It’s my home, I said defensively.

Ever hear of soul mates? she asked. She lay back, cuddling the soft pillows. I think I asked you that earlier.

I went into the kitchen and warmed up some coffee. Like there is someone out there for each of us? I asked. I’d never considered the possibility of soul mates. I wasn’t even sure what they were. Sully would know.

Something like that, she said.

I don’t believe in occult stuff, I said. Just things that I can feel and see. We all make our own beds, and then we lie in them. That’s what I believe. Speaking of beds …

She rolled over on her back, her off-the-shoulder sweater slipping down. I took a deep breath. She was having trouble keeping her bra straight.

Should I tell her that one has popped out? Maybe she knows. Would she tell me if my fly was open? Are you aware that one of your breasts is loose? I politely asked, still in the kitchen. The question only received an uncertain stare and small grin.

I sat down beside her, put her sweater back in place, and quickly planted a soft kiss on her lips. Maybe we aren’t soul mates, but we definitely should mate, I said. I’m as horny as hell.

Get the hell off me! she suddenly shouted. We may be karmic relations, but that doesn’t mean you can screw my brains out—and I do have some brains.

I slid back to the end of the couch, baffled. I’m sorry, I said. I guess I missed the signals. I thought … well, you know. And you were so sincere about liking me—or Burt Reynolds. Well … I’m just sorry.

She slid next to me and wrapped her arms around my waist, pulling me on top of her. You didn’t misjudge me, Ricky. Can I call you Ricky? We were together in a past life. I feel it. I know it. I study all that New Age stuff, along with astrology. I’m a Leo. I like to be in the limelight. I’ll bet you’re a Capricorn.

I was a Capricorn. How’d you know my sign? I asked.

She burped, still quite stoned. Guessed. One out of twelve. I’ll probably get the next eleven wrong. I’m not really into men, though. I wish I was, now that I’ve met you.

I sat back with a jolt. You mean you’re a les—? I mean …

She gently put her fingers over my lips, smiled, coughed a few times, and then passed out.

The next morning, close to noon, I scrambled some eggs and woke up my guest. She was still on the couch, and I had politely covered her with a blanket the night before. She appeared a lot more serious when sober but didn’t refuse seconds on the eggs and toast.

We talked about everything and nothing. Maybe we do have something in common, I thought. She was impressed that I had taken Psychology 101 in college. I didn’t tell her that I had flunked it. She was certainly easy to converse with. I usually didn’t talk much about myself.

I joined the US Army right after spending two senior years in high school, I said. There were no wars at the time, and I admit I thought it would give me free travel around the world, and the GI Bill for college. I certainly had nothing to lose. But I got screwed.

Why’s that? she asked, seeming interested in that and everything else I was saying.

The Gulf War. Who knew? My troop was one of the first over there in 1990. I was only eighteen and knew nothing about nothing.

Poor guy, she said. That must have been quite a shock.

For me, yes. But you’d be surprised how many guys want the action, to legally fight. Carry a gun. But that wasn’t me. I admit that I was frightened as hell.

She chuckled but then