Authors: Belinda Frisch
Fatal Reaction
ALSO BY BELINDA FRISCH
Cure
(Strandville Zombie Novel: Book One)
Afterbirth
(Strandville Zombie Novel: Book Two)
Better Left Buried
The Missing Year
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Text copyright © 2015 Belinda Frisch
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by Thomas & Mercer, Seattle
Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Thomas & Mercer are trademarks of
Amazon.com
, Inc., or its affiliates.
ISBN-13: 9781477830123
ISBN-10: 147783012X
Cover design by Marc Cohen
Library of Congress Control Number 2014958624
To my loving husband, Brent, the cornerstone of my life, who supports my talent unconditionally and believes in me even when I don’t believe in myself. I couldn’t do any of this without you.
In memory of my grandfather, Robert J. Seitz
CONTENTS
CHAPTER 1
The neon sign of the Aquarian motel flickered against the dark morning sky. Six inches of fresh snow blanketed the rows of dilapidated cars, making the ill-reputed slum look only slightly less depressing.
Sergeant Mike Richardson was the second to arrive on the scene. Harold Cooper, whom most people called “Coop,” stood questioning Samuel Roberts, the Aquarian’s manager, under the overhang in front of room 11. The severity in his normally cheerful expression foretold of the bleak scene beyond the door.
Coop, dressed in the requisite blue uniform and a heavy jacket zippered up to his chin, shivered and jotted down notes. His breath puffed out in white clouds as he spoke. At six foot two and a lean one hundred seventy-five pounds, his body wasn’t built for such extreme cold.
Samuel, known throughout the department for drug-related incidents and petty theft, wore nothing but a food-stained white tank top and a pair of tattered, acid-washed jeans. A good four inches shorter than Harold and at least forty pounds lighter, Sam couldn’t afford to lose the calories his crack addiction burned. He bounced up and down, scratching at his long, thin neck hard enough to leave raised red trails dotted with blood.
Mike zippered his coat and warmed his hands in front of the patrol car’s vents, savoring the last bit of heat. The digital clock on the radio said it was 1:15 a.m. Thirty years on the force and as many run-ins with Samuel told him that nothing good happened at this hour, and never at this place. Shutting off the engine, he grabbed a pad and pen from the passenger seat.
“Hey, Coop.” Mike tucked his face into his collar, and his breath reflected off it, freezing in crystals on his salt-and-pepper beard.
“Hey,” Coop said.
Mike, eager to get out of the cold, went immediately to the strung-out man casting back-and-forth glances across the parking lot. “Samuel, how’re you doing?”
“I’m g-g-good.” Sam brushed a knotted strand of greasy blond hair back from his heavily stubbled face.
“What happened here?” said Mike.
“I—I—I don’t know what—what—what happened. I keep tell—tell—tellin’ Officer Cooper, b-b-but he w-w-won’t let me leave.” Sam’s parted lips were turning blue.
Samuel launched into a string of denial Mike had seen coming before he even started his line of questioning. In all the times Mike had been called to the Aquarian, no one had ever seen anything.
Mike noted several newly missing teeth and one on the verge of falling out. The few that remained varied as much in color as fall corn, ranging from yellow to brown. Samuel twitched and picked at his skin. Mike knew if he didn’t get him to look at the scene with fresh eyes, he would be unlikely to remember anything later. He set his hand on the doorknob, and Coop grabbed his arm.
“Wait. There’s something I need to tell you before you go in there.”
Sam’s bloodshot eyes went wide. “I—I—I don’t want to go b-b-back in there. I—I—I did—did—didn’t see anyone. I swear it. I—I—I just found her. Sh-sh-she was supposed to check out. I’m tellin’ you. I don’t know anything.” He backed away as if getting ready to run. “P-p-please. I—I—I just want to go to the office.”
“All right, Sam. Take it easy.” Mike took several slow steps toward him and softened his tone. “We won’t go back in there. Tell me what you saw. Did you notice anything out of place?”
“I—I—I only went in there to clean.”
“At one in the morning?” Mike raised his eyebrows.
Sam’s vacant stare fixed on the scab on his arm that he wouldn’t stop picking at.
Mike drew a deep breath and looked up. Six new security cameras, half rounds with smoked lenses, had been mounted along the motel’s overhang. “Sam, when did you put in surveillance?”
Samuel’s roving stare moved faster, casting back-and-forth glances across the escalating scene.
“Sam! When did you get cameras?”
Samuel refused to answer.
Two more patrol cars arrived. The sirens and swirling lights drew the inevitable crowd. Men and women, most of whom called the motel home thanks to the county’s Section 8 program, filed out of their rooms. Mike suspected the few doors that remained closed belonged to recent parolees looking to avoid trouble.
A little girl, wearing a pair of pink blanket sleepers with the feet cut out, rubbed her eyes. Her overweight mother exhaled a cloud of cigarette smoke and pulled the girl to her side.
“What’s goin’ on?” she said. “I got a kid trying to sleep in here.”
“I’ll be with you in a minute, ma’am.” Coop waved the growing crowd back. “I’m going to need to take statements from all of you, but for now it’s best you go back inside.”
These people knew the protocol, and Mike expected no more information from them than he had gotten from Samuel.
Blood welled up from the now-open wound on Samuel’s thin forearm, and he clenched his teeth; Mike guessed he did this involuntarily. Samuel’s big toe wiggled through a hole in his gray-white sock, and his skin glistened with sweat.
Ronald Graham stepped out of his patrol car, his coat taut over his bulging belly and his plump face buried inside his collar.
Mike waved him over. “Ron, take Samuel to the office. Get him warm, make him some coffee, and get his statement.”
“Will do. Come on, let’s get you inside,” Ron said to Samuel, and gestured for Mike to look over his shoulder.
A white van with the Channel 9 logo emblazoned on the side parked in the shadows of a burned-out streetlight. Terri Tate was relentless and, no doubt, had sprung out of bed to scoop the story.
Mike suspected someone on the force had been tipping her off for years.
“Coop, deal with that, would you?” Mike turned the doorknob of room 11 before Coop could stop him.
The scene was quiet and heavy with death. Suicides had a different feel to them, a kind of vacant sadness that sucked its witnesses in. Mike had seen several, and each left him feeling momentarily hopeless.
He took a minute to adjust.
An empty pill bottle sat on the bedside table next to a drained bottle of vodka. A jilted, seventies-era orange lamp cast a pale light across the tattered carpet, illuminating the grisly sight of a woman’s lifeless body just feet away. Her long hair draped over most of her face, dried vomit visible at the corners of her mouth. Her left arm faced palm-side up, a teal ribbon tattooed on the inside of her wrist. Mike gasped when he realized what Coop had been trying to tell him. The tattoo was a tribute to Sydney’s recent victory over cancer. Mike had been one of the few people nursing her back to health after her hysterectomy. He fought back the tears. Having no children of his own, he had done his best to step in as a father to Sydney and her younger sister, Ana, when their own father, Mike’s partner on the force for twenty years, and their mother, were killed in a plane crash. Seeing Sydney lying there was as crushing as if she were his daughter.
Mike, mindful of protocol, pulled on a pair of shoe covers and gloves, and checked Sydney for the pulse he knew wasn’t there. Her body was stiff with rigor mortis, and her skin was cold enough that Mike felt the chill through the latex gloves.
He briefly considered why Sydney, who lived only a few miles away, would be at a place like the Aquarian. There was no viable explanation. Suicide came quickly off the table, and homicide took its place. Mike formulated mental checklists, sorting scene details and compiling a short list of suspects. Local firefighter Anthony Dowling, whom Sydney was in the process of divorcing, was at the top.
The motel room door opened, and several of the Aquarian’s more brazen tenants moved in for a closer look.
“I’m sorry, Mike.” Coop’s condolences were nearly lost in the chatter.
“Get them back,” Mike said. “Get every single one of them away from here, but no one leaves. You understand me? I don’t care what their excuse is. Everyone gets questioned.”
Coop nodded. “You heard the sergeant. Everyone get back and line up. I need your names.” He tied a piece of crime-scene tape to a chair near the door and commenced roping off the area.
Mike radioed back to the station. “This is Sergeant Mike Richardson. I need the coroner at the Aquarian immediately. There’s been a murder.”