Double Indemnity

t

Published by

D
REAMSPINNER
P
RESS

5032 Capital Circle SW, Suite 2, PMB# 279, Tallahassee, FL 32305-7886  USA

http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of author imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Double Indemnity

© 2015 Maggie Kavanagh.

Cover Art

© 2015 Maria Fanning.

Cover content is for illustrative purposes only and any person depicted on the cover is a model.

All rights reserved. This book is licensed to the original purchaser only. Duplication or distribution via any means is illegal and a violation of international copyright law, subject to criminal prosecution and upon conviction, fines, and/or imprisonment. Any eBook format cannot be legally loaned or given to others. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the Publisher, except where permitted by law. To request permission and all other inquiries, contact Dreamspinner Press, 5032 Capital Circle SW, Suite 2, PMB# 279, Tallahassee, FL 32305-7886, USA, or http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/.

ISBN: 978-1-63216-377-6

Digital ISBN: 978-1-63216-378-3

Library of Congress Control Number: 2014951373

First Edition January 2015

Printed in the United States of America

This paper meets the requirements of

ANSI/NISO Z39.48-1992 (Permanence of Paper).

To my partner in crime, always.

 

Writing does not occur in a vacuum, and I'm incredibly grateful to have the support of so many people. Thank you in particular to
Olivia, Michela, and Asya, dear friends who have offered their
insightful feedback and cheerleading at all stages of the drafting and editing process. This novel wouldn't exist without them.

 

S
AM
HAD
never believed in alien abduction stories, but the way he felt, he finally understood how those rumors got started. He squinted at the mildewing shower curtain and tried to recall the night before. His head hurt, though, and thinking was hard. His ass hurt too, but it didn't take a genius to figure out the reason. It sure as hell hadn't been the work of an anal probe. At least not an alien anal probe.

Honey, it was aliens. Aliens made me drink a ton of booze and then fucked my ass, I swear.

He tilted his head and let the spray wash away the taste of cock and beer. From the way his back and neck ached, it seemed like it had been a night to remember. How ironic.

“Ouch. Dammit.” He cursed as the shower went from lukewarm to scorching hot, which meant the little talk he'd had with apartment 512 the week before about the shared water supply hadn't had the desired effect. Protecting his balls with one hand, he fought the showerhead with the other, forcing it toward the wall so he wouldn't cook himself. He needed to get a new place. The same thought occurred to him every time this happened, and yet he'd lived in the building for over five years. But doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results was pretty much his credo.

It would be a shame to change now.

When he stepped onto the shirt serving as a bath mat, he rubbed his hands over his face to determine whether he needed a shave. The stubble hadn't started to itch yet. Bloodshot hazel eyes stared back at him in the mirror—a reminder he hadn't slept more than four hours.
Still, with youth on his side, he didn't look too bad, in spite of the comical contrast between his tan neck and arms and his pale chest. He ran his hands through his damp, dirty blond hair and decided against applying product. It would only sweat down his face once he got to work.

It seemed primed to be another brutal New England summer day with 100 percent humidity. Even the air outside the bathroom felt mossy and wet. Sam grabbed a pair of not-too-dirty shorts from the laundry and pulled on a Manella's Landscaping tee, then pocketed his keys and headed for the door. Along the way he caught a glimpse of a discarded baseball hat. Yankees.
Yuri's.

The answer to what had happened last night. Or rather, who.

He grabbed the hat, and his phone buzzed in his back pocket.

“What's up, Rach?”

“Oh my God, Sam. You will never believe what happened.” A trace of alarm edged Rachel's usually smooth voice.

“Are you okay? What's going on?”

“Mark Feldman is dead.”

Sam froze in his tracks. “What? How?”

“I don't know. It's breaking right now. Sounds like the cops found him at home, though. Do you have a minute before work? I'm at the Star.”

Sam glanced at the time. “Yeah, I'll come down.” He didn't technically have to be at the Walkers' place for another hour.

“See you in a few.”

The Lucky Star pub tried a bit too hard to be Irish and wound up on just the wrong side of cheesy. Still, they had good burgers, better fries, and the best bartender in Stonebridge, Connecticut—if you asked Sam, though he'd admit to bias. Sam gave the window a tappity-tap-tap since the place wouldn't open until noon, and a few seconds later the door swung open. Rachel's full lips were set in a grim line. She gestured him inside before the neighborhood drunks got wind and descended en masse.

The room was empty. A spray bottle full of cleaner and some rags sat abandoned on one of the small round tables in the general seating area, evidence Rachel had been cleaning up from the night before. Sam's boots stuck to the floor, making Velcro sounds with each step as he followed Rachel toward the bar, where one of the TVs was tuned into a morning newscast. He did a double take. Words flashed on the screen below a large picture of a smiling man he recognized as Mark Feldman.
Local Philanthropist Found Dead.

“Hot damn. CNN?” Sam slid onto his favorite stool.

“Yep. And Fox News.” Rachel rolled her eyes and smoothed her Afro away from her face. “It's practically a national story.”

“Glory comes to Stonebridge in strange ways.” Sam snorted. “Hell, I think I need a beer.”

“After how drunk you were last night? I don't think so.”

“Haven't you ever heard of hair of the dog?”

Rachel smacked his arm with a bar towel. “Just shut up and listen.”

They both turned their attention to the TV as the male reporter introduced a local news briefing. The screen changed to the pressroom at the courthouse, one Sam was familiar with from the few times the local newspaper had called him in to cover a story. Chief Sheldon stood at the podium wearing his grandpa reading glasses, perfectly poised. His bushy gray eyebrows were drawn together, a telltale sign he was serious.

Sam grinned. “The old man's on TV. Would you look at that?”

“At six fifteen this morning, we received a call from a family member who found Mr. Feldman unresponsive. Police and medics reported to the scene, but all attempts to revive the deceased were unsuccessful. We will keep you updated with the latest as the case develops. Right now I ask that reporters give the family the respect and privacy they deserve during this terrible time. Thank you.” Sheldon began to back away, but not before being hit by a barrage of questions.

One reporter, a guy from the
Gazette
, yelled the loudest. “Is it true you found him in the bathtub?”

Sheldon frowned, and he glanced over his shoulder at someone else before turning back to the crowd of reporters. “Yes.”

“Was it a suicide?”

“I have no further comments at this point.”