Blood Red Deceit

By Steve Rush

Gold medals and fame personify the life Angel Meade wants people to see until a pint of blood Ridge Warner donates to keep her alive alters her future and darkens life's luster to a permanent eclipse over her soul.

Ridge meets the unexpected in Woodland Park, Colorado, three days before their wedding when he learns more than he cares to know about his fiancée after he agrees to investigate a murder where an IED exploded at the scene.

The matter intensifies when Angel's best friend discovers evidence linking Angel to the murder and IED, which draws Ridge back into the case in search of the reason for Angel's treachery.

Experience the suspense and unexpected climax in Blood Red Deceit as it shows how one person's ambition succumbs to the relentless grip of deceit.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wings ePress, Inc.
• Release date: Aug 17, 2023
• ISBN: 9781597054751

Book preview

One

Life had thrown changes my way, but nothing like this. This latest event altered my future with my fiancée, Angel Meade. The blood I donated saved her life. Minutes later, an analysis of my blood exposed an inconceivable truth.

Angel opened her eyes and lifted her head. Her gaze diverted to my elbow pit. You needed it, I said through a hospital-approved mask. The bullet damaged your spleen.

Angel glanced at her side before she lifted her left hand. The dressing’s contour alluded to a void. She pulled her hand from mine and stroked the concavity.

Where am I? Why did they not reattach my fingers?

Beijing International Medical Center. The fingers weren’t salvageable. A nurse gave this to me. I held Angel’s engagement ring between my thumb and forefinger. I took her right hand and placed the ring on her finger, and gestured to her injured hand. Perhaps I should have it resized for your middle finger.

Angel laughed. There’s a statement. I wanted to give that message to the shooter.

I can’t imagine you doing that.

You didn’t see her face, Ridge. I suffer no pang of guilt for my thoughts. She deserved more than the finger.

Well. I rounded the foot of the bed.

What? Did they not disqualify her? How could the Olympic Committee ignore such reckless disregard?

I pulled my mask off and kissed the bandage. You, being an optimist, will love this. When your coach called to check on you, he told me an expert inspected the girl’s rifle. The ammo used violated Olympic rules That explains the ballistics. The impact effect exceeded what is normal for ammo selected for competition. Otherwise, the damage to your hand would be minimal.

Anger flushed Angel’s face. She stared at the window. She released the latch on the bed rail. It dropped and banged against the frame.

I continued. The Olympic Committee asked for an inquiry. Angel bolted upright and jerked out her IV. What are you doing?

Help me get dressed. She shoved off the bed and opened the cabinet door. One of her boots tumbled out and landed on her foot. She recoiled and slammed the door. Where are my clothes?

Angel moved to the window where she rested her forehead on the frosted glass. She closed her eyes. I wondered why she allowed herself to lose control. Another reaction unlike her. I placed my hand on her back and kissed her shoulder through the hospital gown. We were about to be married. Nothing short of her death, or mine, stood in our way. Why did she care about one Olympian gone haywire? The girl had taken competitive spirit to the dark side. It was over. Let the authorities deal with it. Life forthcoming belonged to us.

Angel turned from the window. Where is my valise?

China’s Covid restrictions prohibited me from entering the Olympic Village. Your coach brought it to me. I have it in the car.

PROPPED ON THE BED, Angel admired Ridge’s gait as he strode out. Her left side ached. Her left hand throbbed. Thoughts roamed from the present to the enigma of her half-opened future.

A shadow fell through the doorway, followed by a triple tap. A sleek Asian man about thirty dressed in black slacks and a designer shirt stepped in. He closed the door. He looked in the lavatory. A slip of paper fluttered in his grasp. His friendly eyes shone above his half-covered face.

Good. You’re alone.

I suggest you state your reason for barging in on me, whoever you are.

The visitor held out the paper. I’m a geneticist. You’ll want to see this.

Angel snatched it out of his hand and read the header: "DNA Report, For Personal Knowledge Only." She perused the results.

This is impossible.

The man shifted his feet. No doubt or error, Ms. Meade. Analysis proved it.

What level of certainty?

Indisputable.

Angel folded the report. She ignored her pain and pushed off the bed. Harm worse than pain and a near-death encounter seized her. It annihilated her future. I thought DNA analysis took weeks to get results.

Advanced technology shortened the wait.

She craned her neck to look out the window. Ridge headed across the parking lot. Disclose this to no one. She turned back to the technician. You hear me? Make a note in my chart. No one gets these results.

Done.

Again alone, Angel hid the report in one of her boots and perched on the bed. Ridge’s suggestion of where she should wear her engagement ring sounded sweeter and stickier than molasses. She might try it once her hand healed. She preferred to act on instinct over hard-and-fast rules. The latter seemed irrelevant, given the data disclosed in the report. The revelation injected poison into her opaque heart. Its acid burned her soul. In that moment, Angel Meade donned animosity as if it were her favorite pair of sneakers.

She shivered the moment Ridge stepped in with her valise. Cold sprang off the carry-on and the coat Ridge shrugged out of and laid across the footboard. He rubbed his hands together. Angel tightened her lips and tossed a glare at him.

Ridge lowered his arms. What? Did something happen while I was out?

I need to get out of here. Angel slid off the bed. She circled behind Ridge, snatched her boot off the floor, and dragged the valise into the bathroom. She shut the door when she saw Ridge approach her. A tap on the door announced his persistence.

Will you talk to me?

Not now, Ridge. I have too many thoughts I need to sort through before I get home.

The report changed their relationship and nothing in her, him, or anyone else could make it okay. She struggled one-handed to support and open her bag. Pain shot through her left hand and through the missing fingers when her elbow bumped the wall.

Angel?

Angel huffed, grabbed her bag, and shoved back into the room. She tossed her valise on the bed, turned her back to Ridge, and jerked off the hospital gown. Her face flushed as the gown flitted from her grasp. As she grabbed for it, she nudged the bed. Her valise toppled off the far side.

Let me help you.

I got it. She put her left forearm across her breasts and whipped the curtain closed between them.

What is going on, Angel? Talk to me.

Angel sank to the bed. The opaque curtain blocked her view of Ridge. He was always going to be there, no matter where she fled or how she felt about him. The disclosure assured it. She stretched across the bed for her bag and pulled out a pair of charcoal virgin wool pants and a blousy cardigan in black to match her mood.

ANGEL’S SILENCE RESONATED in me compared to her usual chattiness. She engaged in no meaningful conversation from the time we left the hospital, despite my several attempts. Her silence steered my mind off course. I was sitting next to a woman I intended to marry and yet memories of my former girlfriend, Suzette London, flitted across my mind every time I closed my eyes.

I cradled her bandaged hand and held the seat belt buckle while she inserted the latch plate. The click broke the silent atmosphere in the Gulfstream G550. I welcomed the stillness after the crowded 14-hour flight on the wide-body Boeing 747-8 from Beijing to JFK in New York City.

Thank you for the kindness you’ve shown me. Angel’s words gave off a contrived tone. She spoke with not even a glance in my direction. Perhaps the pain and loss of two fingers induced her antipathy.

What is your pain level?

Ten.

Where are your meds?

Angel shook out a folded blanket and tucked it to her chin. Trashed.

I will write one for you after we get home.

Don’t bother. Angel reached into a bag and pulled out the bottle of orange juice I picked up for her at a small fixed-base operator (FBO) at the airport. She wedged an Everclear 190 proof bottle between her knees, uncapped it, and poured the liquor into the OJ.

I put my hand on hers. Please, Angel. Neurotoxins lead to nerve damage.

Angel nudged my hand away. I’ve heard. She shook the bottle. Guzzled its contents. Reclined her seatback. Closed her eyes.

The Gulfstream’s engines shrieked. The G-forces on my body eased after takeoff. At 2,500 feet, I moved to a seat behind and across the aisle. I had three-and-a-half hours to sleep, or think. Thoughts prevailed. Nothing shoved aside the memories. I saw warmth in Suzette’s smile. Tasted the softness of her lips. Smelled the aromatic effluence of her body’s chemistry. Heard pleasantness in her voice.

The memories persisted after I opened my eyes. Angel remained unmoved. I pulled out my phone and sent a text message to a number given to me at the end of my training at the CIA’s Camp Peary, not the FBI Academy in Quantico, as Angel was led to believe.

"Something amiss with Angel."

The reply stated, "Charlie briefed me. I will have someone at the FBO to take her home. Stay on the plane. You are needed in Denver."

Two

Angel writhed on her bed. The red 3:05 glowered at her inability to sleep. Red dots skipped along the hopscotch pattern until they lit every square in the digital timepiece. By the time it turned for another pass, daylight hovered outside the shutter like a voyeur determined to see between the slats.

She kicked off the sheet. While daylight gazed, Angel ran her right hand down her svelte abdomen on the verge of becoming emaciated from months of training and time trials before the big day. A container of gelatin a nurse claimed was fruity, and two cups of raspberry sorbet added no nourishment to alter the effect. The cardigan she’d worn on the flight home fit her like a deployed parachute.

Two months afforded enough time to fill out her wedding dress. The result remained uncertain.

Angel peeled the bandage off her left side. She shifted for daylight to get a better view of the damage inflicted by the bullet. Serous fluid drained out of the hole enlarged and later sutured by the surgeon. The closed incision reminded her of cheap eyelashes stuck on a puffy eyelid. The image encouraged a chuckle, which awakened a throb in her left hand.

On her way to the bathroom, Angel sidled to the nightstand where her phone chirped. Her face burned upon the first glimpse at the caller’s ID.

What do you want?

I need somebody to help me. Denver Police just charged me with six counts of murder.

Not funny, Clay. It’s way too early for one of your shenanigans. She ended the call and traipsed to the bathroom. She wet a washcloth in cold water and pressed it to her side.

Her phone chirped. A few seconds later, her voicemail trilled a tone of Jim Croce’s Operator. The line, Let’s forget about this call, watermarked the caller’s image as it rumbled through her mind. She wished to forget, but Clay Bascomb refused to let her.

The chirps stopped before she shuffled back to the bedroom. Angel fanned the washcloth and put it back on her side. She winced and picked up her phone. The same caller ID lit up the screen.

What?

I want Ridge to help me.

Why would he want to help you?

The obvious reason. We’re brothers. Besides, he’s the best forensic expert I’ve ever heard testify in court.

Flattery, and an apology, will never hook Ridge. You blame him for your mother’s infidelity. Kindness from you is an oxymoron.

Must you always be sarcastic?

I’m in the mood. Call me back in two weeks.

I don’t have two weeks.

Angel eased off the bed. You sound serious. Where are you?

I’m terrified. The police raided my townhouse this morning and hauled me to Denver. I’m at their headquarters on Cherokee Street. Six young women, Angel. Six. You must have heard about them. The grand jury indicted me for murder. The trial begins in two months. Will you call Ridge? I tried and can’t get through.

Angel smiled. She realized Clay’s need became an opportunity for her. I’ll help you if you help me, she lied. I have to go. She pulled a pillow to her side and erupted in laughter. The release delivered a welcome respite from her physical and mental anxiety.

Angel dried her eyes. She opened the nightstand drawer and took out her journal. A blank page three quarters through awaited her thoughts as the tethered pen and its blue ink hovered above the top line. No heading made an appearance. The pen dove to the third line and wrote, Ridge Warner.

Two lines below, she corralled three words twice as large as the name.

Connected. Detached. Conflicted.

Those three words described her turn of mind. Ridge donated blood. The DNA results. Her future. All totaled in one connected-detached-conflicted bundle sealed in her heart for the moment of reprisal. Kill them all.

Hums reached her from the kitchen. Not even the melody, Wonderful Tonight calmed her. Angel closed the journal and limped to the kitchen. The two fingers not covered by the bandage on her left hand massaged the top of her breastbone.

Ravenna Tinsley stopped humming. She set the whisk she held in her right hand on a paper towel and gestured to Angel’s lack of attire. I adore you, but this is way out of character. The answer is no if you are planning to eat in the buff, or about to invite me to the bedroom.

What? Angel took her hand away and looked down. Sorry, no. I just got off the phone. The police arrested an acquaintance of mine for murder. She gazed out the window. The sternal massage resumed.

Ravenna snapped her fingers. Look at me.

I’ve asked you not to do that.

Disassociate yourself from whoever it is. It’s bad for your image.

Angel propped on the island. She picked up the whisk and stared at the paper towel as if it were the DNA report.

Ravenna snatched the whisk from Angel’s grasp. Ravenna to Angel. Hello.

Will you not allow me a moment to think in peace?

No. Put on a robe. Wrap yourself in paper towels. I’m getting disgustingly distracted.

Angel straightened. How dare you judge me.

Ravenna slapped the counter. Angel saw a wounded trickle crest her best friend’s cheeks. Nevertheless, she refused to unburden herself of the life-changing discovery. Not to Ravenna. Not to anyone. This had become her war.

Angel diverted her eyes. Her fingers again palpated her sternum. I’ll be back in a minute. She took two strides, paused, and braced against a wall.

Ravenna’s hand touched her arm. Will you let me help you?

Angel nodded. Please.

She wanted to share her quandary with Ravenna. The problem was, everything spoken became evidence in Ravenna’s eidetic memory. If she slipped and said the wrong thing—she dismissed the thought. Ravenna’s friendship and support just became vital to whatever strategy she decided on.

In the bedroom, Angel held on to Ravenna’s arm while Ravenna helped her put on crops and an ivory waffle-knit tunic, which Ravenna buttoned for her.

Ravenna stepped back. Much better. Now, forget the phone call. I want to hear about this man who stole your heart.

Although Angel determined to keep the discovery hidden, Ravenna’s eagerness triggered an escape attempt in her larynx. The tension choked her.

I’ll get some water. Ravenna rushed out of the room.

Angel screamed into a pillow. Never had she kept any important issue from her best friend. Ravenna Tinsley was the most compassionate and understanding person in her life. She lowered the pillow and stared at the floor.

What was that noise? Ravenna asked when she walked back in. It sounded like a dying eagle’s screech in here.

Angel sipped the water. I cleared my throat. I probably need to rest my voice a while.

Angel cried, swore, and ranted for two months with no hint of relief. The reprieve she sought surpassed any offered on a psychologist’s couch. Forgiveness absolved nothing. She shoved aside the thought. Forgiveness worked for the ones who possessed a kindhearted spirit, which she no longer had, thanks to the DNA report.

Murder assured release.

The clock ticked toward death.

Three

Angel once told me Swafford’s General Store in Woodland Park was the go-to place in town for whatever any needy shopper might look to buy. One look at the building and I wasn’t certain I believed it. The clapboard sides needed several coats of paint to hide years of exposure. Rust ate the edges of the Coca-Cola sign hanging over the double front doors. I parked around back in a small graveled lot and entered through the rear door, which scrubbed the floor when I pushed inside.

A man in his fifties stood in the middle aisle. His weathered face somewhat matched the frayed crew neck of the green pullover he wore. He hiked up the waistband of his jeans, said in a bass voice, Come on in. I’m Jim. Let me know if you need help to find anything. I’ve got just about everything a man could want in here except a good woman.

That’s okay, Jim. My bachelorhood ends in three days.

I heard that. Everybody needs at least one in their life.

You sound like a man with experience.

He again tugged up his pants. Will be twenty-nine years come May. Everything was going great till she made me go on a diet four months ago. Having a wife that’s also your doctor is not always a good thing. Danged diabetes. Can’t eat anything without it catching up to me. He said it with a chuckle. I must admit; I feel better. Most of the time anyway.

The assortment of goods inside Swafford’s lived up to the described general store. I perused the stockpile of goods for fifteen minutes before selecting the items I wanted for my weekend in town.

A woman’s scream swayed my focus to her the moment I signed the receipt for my purchase. I looked out through the plate glass window. The cherry-haired victim, who looked to be in her late twenties, struggled with a teenager over control of her handbag. She cuddled a child with one arm while she fought to hold on to the strap of her purse with the other.

The thief jerked the brown leather bag from her grasp. He rounded the front of her car, hopped onto the sidewalk, and ran northward. Feet patted toward the corner. He cradled the handbag against his chest the way a halfback protected a football. A blue dew rag looped his left wrist. His unbuttoned shirt flapped behind him.

Somebody, stop him!

The child wailed in the woman’s arms.

I left my bag of goods on the counter, snatched a bottle of canola oil off the shelf to my left and rushed to the door. I bumped the door open with my forearm and dashed the bottle on the sidewalk three strides ahead of the thief.

The teen attempted to veer right. His left foot skidded out from under him. He fumbled the handbag. It tumbled out onto the street and littered the intersection with its contents. The backside of his faded and soiled jeans smacked the concrete. He flailed his arms and legs as he surged forward on his back. A signpost between the sidewalk and the curb arrested his motion.

You’re out, a codger said from a bench in front of the barbershop next door to the grocer. The old man elbowed a man about the same age wearing a denim shirt, khaki work pants, and a dingy camouflage cap. Nice going, sonny, the first man said. That was quick thinking.

The thief cupped both hands over his crotch, rolled to his side, moaned, and scowled at the two old men.

He’s just got his sports mixed up, that’s all. The man with the dingy cap slapped a knee and pointed an arthritic-looking finger. You should wear a cup next time, boy.

Forgot his protection, right, Frank?

Good one, Charlie. I like that.

I picked up the pocketbook and gathered the wallet, a blue compact, keys, bank book, and miscellaneous papers strewn about the pavement. The woman ran up after I picked up a three ounce can of pepper spray. I handed the purse to her. The child’s hand clung to her shirt.

Cute baby, I said.

She thanked me for the compliment and my help, shouldered her purse, and pulled out a miniature baseball bat from behind her. She traipsed to the corner, adjusted the child on her left hip and whaled and kicked her assailant.

Flog him good, little lady, the one called Charlie said. He deserves every bruise you can put on him.

That’s right. Let him have it, Frank said, jabbing the air with a fist.

A police car turned onto the street three blocks north. My eyes met Charlie’s. He bobbed his head. Go, young man. I’ll take care of this.

I diverted my eyes to the police cruiser and stepped beyond the corner of the store.

I THINK HE’S HAD ENOUGH. The voice of a Woodland Park police officer boomed over the ruckus. Please, ma’am. Back away. I’ll take that. He reached for the bat.

The woman obeyed, but jabbed the boy’s side one last time with the toe of her well-worn sneaker. She backed away and told the officer how the teen grabbed her pocketbook and would have gotten away if it were not for a stranger’s help.

The officer searched and cuffed the thief. He rubbed thumb and fingers on his left hand and said, What did you do, wet your pants? The officer’s foot slipped on the wet concrete. He braced on the pole and prevented a fall. What’s this mess all over you and the sidewalk? he grumbled.

The boy remained silent.

The officer led the teen to the police cruiser and secured him in the back seat. When he shut the door, he looked up and down the street. The officer glanced at Swafford’s store and the two men sitting on the bench.

Charlie? Frank? Either of you have anything you’d like to add?

Frank spoke first. Yep. You should've seen it. Most entertainment we’ve had around here in weeks. That stuff there’s a slip-slap trap. Frank nudged Charlie’s thigh with the back of his hand.

A what?

You know. Slip-slap trap.

What in the heck is that?

Well, it’s like this. One slip on the stuff and you slap the ground. You’re caught. Just like that. Our hero made it.

"Our hero?"

Yep. Me and Charlie’s claimed him. Maybe he can straighten out some things wrong in this town. Nobody else seems to do it.

Is that so? The officer looked around. Where is this hero of yours? Either of you know where he got off to?

Don’t have the slightest. Charlie removed his hat and scratched his bald spot. He’s here one minute, gone the next. I reckon your guess is as good as mine.

So, neither of you knows him? Seen him before?

Couldn’t say we paid much attention, Frank said. The young lady’s yelling got our attention. Then, this here young fellow kissed the sidewalk right dab in front of us. I couldn’t say I’d even recognize the fellow again if I saw him.

Me neither.

What about you, miss? He got your purse back, didn’t he? You must’ve gotten a good look at him. What did he look like?

Cherry-hair shifted her kid from one hip to the other and whisked several stray hairs off her forehead.

I’m just glad to have my pocketbook back. The man saved me a lot of trouble having to stop payment on credit cards and a bunch of other stuff I’d worry about if I hadn’t. I couldn’t say what he looked like other than he seemed like a decent guy. He had a nice smile and friendly eyes. I can carry that kindness with me from here on. Sort of pick-me-up in the middle of the week.

JIM LOOKED UP WHEN the back door opened. He smiled as I made my way over to the second aisle where I selected a box of laundry detergent.

Forget something?

I need this for an oil spill.

Huh, the only spill I saw was that thug smack the sidewalk out there. He had it coming. Boy’s been nothing but trouble since he and his ex-con dad moved to town three years ago. Don’t worry about the mess. I’ve got something that’ll take care of it in no time at all.

"It’s my mess. I’m sure the officer behind me would appreciate my