Thrill Kill Read online

  Contents

  Cover

  A Selection of Recent Titles by Don Bruns

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  A Selection of Recent Titles by Don Bruns

  The Quentin Archer Mysteries

  CASTING BONES *

  THRILL KILL *

  The Lessor and Moore Mysteries

  STUFF TO DIE FOR

  STUFF DREAMS ARE MADE OF

  STUFF TO SPY FOR

  DON’T SWEAT THE SMALL STUFF

  TOO MUCH STUFF

  HOT STUFF

  REEL STUFF

  The Caribbean Mysteries

  JAMAICA BLUES

  BARBADOS HEAT

  SOUTH BEACH SHAKEDOWN

  ST. BARTS BREAKDOWN

  BAHAMA BURNOUT

  * available from Severn House

  THRILL KILL

  Don Bruns

  This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  First published in Great Britain and the USA 2017 by

  SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of

  19 Cedar Road, Sutton, Surrey, England, SM2 5DA.

  This eBook edition first published in 2017 by Severn House Digital

  an imprint of Severn House Publishers Limited

  Trade paperback edition first published

  in Great Britain and the USA 2017 by

  SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD

  Copyright © 2017 by Don Bruns.

  The right of Don Bruns to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

  A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

  ISBN-13: 978-0-7278-8693-4 (cased)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-84751-802-6 (trade paper)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-78010-865-0 (e-book)

  Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.

  This ebook produced by

  Palimpsest Book Production Limited,

  Falkirk, Stirlingshire, Scotland

  ONE

  Kim Hammond rounded the corner from Barbara’s Bridal Boutique, pulling a wool scarf tight around her shoulders and shrugging off the chill. After alterations, the white lace gown would be perfect, and the apricot bridesmaids’ dresses had been what she’d dreamed of. The tall thin black man blocking her path was not something she’d pictured on this idyllic day.

  ‘Not your lucky day, lady.’

  She paused, looking left and right and over her shoulder. Please, someone drive by. Something. She saw no one. Her heart raced and she remembered what her father had said. ‘When in danger, kick him in the balls.’

  The long blade on the knife in his gloved right hand suggested a kick might incite him. If it was money he wanted she didn’t have much. There was her engagement ring. She panicked. Oh, God, not the ring. Maybe he’d just take the cash. Please, let her keep the ring.

  ‘I don’t have much money.’ Her thin voice quivered. ‘Maybe forty dollars and it’s all yours.’ She reached inside her leather purse.

  ‘It’s not money, lady.’ His left hand was buried in his baggy jeans and she briefly wondered if he had another weapon in there.

  ‘What do you want?’

  He was a boy. Staring into his face she realized he was sixteen, seventeen at the most. She kept digging into her purse, finally producing her wallet.

  ‘Everything I’ve got,’ she said. ‘Listen, my fiancé is a banker.’ Grasping for anything. ‘I’m sure I can raise more money.’

  The young man nodded and she saw hesitation in his eyes. Hesitation and a sleepy look, almost like he was drugged. Hopefully he was having a change of heart. Dropping his knife hand he frowned.

  ‘I’m truly sorry, but you’re the one,’ he said.

  She side stepped him ready to run. The slender boy stepped in her way.

  ‘Please, my car is just over there,’ she pointed to a street spot. ‘For God’s sake, take the car.’

  ‘You’re the first person in five minutes,’ he said. ‘I’ve got to do this today. If I don’t, there may not be another chance.’

  The girl quickly darted to her left. He was there, and when she stepped to her right he again countered.

  ‘What do you want? I’ll give you anything,’ she cried now, tears rolling down her cheeks.

  ‘I want …’ He paused, then raised the threatening knife again, ‘I need to kill you. It’s what I have to do.’

  ‘Oh, God no. No, please no. I’m about to get married. Why? Oh, please.’ And instead of screaming she spoke in a soft, little girl voice. She wanted to shout, scare the assailant off but her words came out in pathetic sobs. ‘I’ll do whatever you …’

  He grabbed her by the shoulder, squeezing hard. It was crazy but she kept thinking, He’s going to leave a bruise.

  ‘Nothing personal, lady.’ His words were slurred and he lurched at her. ‘You just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.’

  She watched in horror as he plunged the knife into her chest, again and again. Finally the girl screamed. She screamed as she watched blood flow from the wound but by then it was too late. She closed her eyes and saw no more.

  TWO

  Detectives Quentin Archer and Josh Levy stood on the corner, a cold mist blowing in their faces. Archer had turned up the collar on his sport coat, but still the chill went bone deep. The owner of the bridal boutique, a frail looking gray-haired lady, leaned against the brick wall, a black umbrella in her right hand. She kept shaking her head back and forth.

  A second lady, wearing a yellow windbreaker, stood by her side, wringing her wrinkled hands.

  ‘We didn’t hear anything, we didn’t see anything,’ she said. ‘This part of town is very safe. And usually very q
uiet. Especially in the afternoon. This is just so, so sad. And especially here. These kinds of things just don’t happen here.’

  Archer knew she was wrong from the start. There was no part of this town that was safe.

  ‘Did anyone come in the store shortly before or after she visited you? Someone who might have been stalking her? Asking about her?’ Archer asked.

  ‘No. It was a slow day.’ The gray-haired lady’s gaze shifted to the body bag as two uniformed attendants lifted it up into the ambulance. ‘There was no one. She was the only one who visited us today. We usually work by appointment and there was no one else scheduled.’

  ‘Think hard about anything you might have noticed. A car driving by that didn’t look right? A motorcycle? Delivery van? Did you have any deliveries today? Any packages or special mail?’

  ‘There was nothing unusual, Detective. It was pretty much a normal day.’ She paused, taking a deep breath. ‘I imagine this is going to be on the news, right? And they’ll mention our shop?’

  ‘I’m certain the press will be here before day’s end,’ Levy said. ‘They tend to gravitate to scenes like this.’

  ‘This can’t be good for business,’ the lady said.

  ‘It wasn’t very good for the victim,’ Archer replied.

  She nodded. ‘I suppose not. She was a sweet young girl. But then they all are, you know? They’re getting ready for the most important day in their life. Who will tell the groom?’

  ‘We contact the immediate family,’ Levy said. ‘Mother, father, husband, wife. It’s up to them to tell anyone else.’

  A uniformed policeman handed Archer a plastic bag containing a blue aerosol can, the name Chill printed in white on the metal.

  ‘Officer, is this something we should be concerned with?’

  ‘Part of the crime scene, Detective. I thought we should bag it.’

  ‘It was under her body, Q. Could be she just fell on it as she hit the ground,’ Levy said.

  ‘Possible. Or maybe the killer placed it there.’

  ‘An aerosol can? Why?’

  ‘I don’t know, Detective Levy. It’s our job to find out.’

  THREE

  A TV news anchor had coined the phrase thrill kills. The killings appeared to be random murders, possibly committed by someone or multiple someones who killed for the sport. There were three. So far. The young white bride-to-be was a bank teller. She was followed by a black janitor who worked in an office building in the Warehouse District and a gangbanger who was a member of the Nasta Mafia in Little Woods, East New Orleans. One item tied them together. A blue-and-white can at the scene of each murder. Other than that, there were no obvious connections, just three random people who had met untimely deaths. The girl had multiple wounds to the chest; the janitor had been shot at close range; the gangbanger had been stabbed repeatedly. Homicide was feverishly conducting background investigations, looking for connections. And after a week of no leads, no associations, there was just that one item that was identical to all three incidents.

  When the department finally released information about finding a can of the pressurized gas named Chill at the scene of each of the three shootings, The Times Picayune bold headline read ‘The Chill Thrill Kills’.

  Quentin Archer had caught the first case. Therefore, the next two were his as well. And he’d never even heard of Chill.

  ‘It’s a spray gas, Q,’ detective Josh Levy had explained. ‘You can get it in some grocery stores or carry-outs. Let’s say you’ve got a six-pack of warm beer, a liter of Coke, or a bottle of white wine and you need to chill it quickly, you spray some of this on the bottle and it chills. Almost instantly. Some chemical called nitroxicetylene.’

  ‘I don’t drink white wine.’

  ‘That’s why you don’t know about Chill. That plus you’re not some kid looking for a cheap high.’

  ‘High?’

  ‘The kids like to spray it up their noses. It not only makes the nasal passages get ice cold, but if you breathe enough of this stuff it makes you a little crazy. If it wasn’t this shit it would be furniture polish or cleaning fluid. Kids today, they’ll huff anything cheap. Chill sells for like three bucks and you can get fifteen, twenty hits.’

  One day later they sat in the bullpen, Levy straddling a chair and Archer at his desk. Eighteen desks filled the room and across the hall, in a matching bullpen, were another eighteen desks. Thirty-six places for harried homicide detectives, although only thirty-one were on duty. Thirty-six cops were needed for a full complement but the NOPD homicide division wasn’t exactly deluged with resumes, and two detectives had walked out in the last three weeks. Homicide duty in the country’s murder capital wasn’t everyone’s cup of tea. Besides, the pay was lousy.

  ‘So we’ve decided there’s no intention of robbing the victims?’ Archer loosened his tie.

  Levy shook his head. ‘The bank teller, she had her engagement ring on and money in her purse. The janitor had a couple hundred bucks in his wallet and the pay stub from the check he’d just cashed. The banger had bling. A couple thousand dollars in gold hanging around his neck. They all had valuables, Q. You were there. You checked ’em out. Nobody was robbing anyone. It seems like the kill is what’s important. Maybe that’s all it is. The thrill of the kill.’

  ‘We’ve been exploring the possibility of a vendetta?’

  ‘We have,’ Levy said, ‘but the janitor? He was a seventy-five-year-old church-going grandfather. Hardly the model for a gangland slaying. The girl, she was about to get married. Loving family, close friends. Her fiancé was a respected bank executive. Hector Sanchez, now he was a bad ass. Couple of DUIs, did time for selling drugs, rape, a home invasion, and he was only twenty-four. I could see someone cutting him up. But nothing seems to fit together.’

  ‘We need to look at the bank teller again. Jealous ex, or a girlfriend who was in love with her fiancé?’

  ‘We will, Q, but there’s nothing in any of their background checks that is a direct link to the others.’

  ‘We keep finding out what doesn’t work. What doesn’t fit.’ He closed his eyes, his fists clenched. ‘Eventually,’ Archer said, ‘the only thing left is what does work. What does fit. Then we solve the crime.’

  He leafed through loose papers on his desk. ‘Look at this. We canvassed grocery stores and carry-outs in all the neighborhoods where the bodies were found. Made a list of all of them that carry Chill and viewed video from all the stores that had a camera. We got squat.’

  ‘Problem is, Detective, it’s hard to make out the images on some of the videos. The definition isn’t that great. And in most of those stores they’ve got spray cans for dozens of purposes. Everything from whipped cream to spray that will fix a flat tire. You’ve got insecticides, shoe polish, lubricants, even spray-on cheese. We’re studying the video images again, but it’s a slow process. We’ve got maybe twenty stores and we’re trying to go back at least a week before the victims were killed. That’s a lot of hours of video.’

  ‘And obviously the killers could have purchased the product anywhere. Maybe even online.’

  ‘There’s no trace of the chemical on any of the victims,’ Levy said. ‘The killer didn’t use any of the gas on them.’

  ‘And we’re just guessing if we think there may be a trace on the killer. No way of knowing.’

  ‘Why does the can show up every time?’ Levy laced his fingers together, rocking back and forth. ‘What’s the purpose? It’s a message. Like a graffiti artist who tags his work.’

  ‘Why the can of Chill?’ Archer asked. ‘What kind of tag is that? Just finding out what purpose the cans have would give us a huge advantage. It’s a signature, but there seems to be no reason.’

  ‘The one thing we’ve kept quiet,’ Levy said, ‘is that each can has been used. Somebody has sprayed some of the contents. None of the cans is completely full. We measured the content.’

  ‘So the killer, or killers, drink white wine. They chill a bottle then go kill someon
e.’ Q forced a smile.

  ‘Or, the killers want to get high before they murder the vic.’

  Archer stood up, pointing a finger at Levy. ‘It’s a dumb idea, but check the videos for anyone buying white wine.’

  ‘Holy shit, Q, there might be thousands of people. And on a security camera all wine bottles are going to look alike.’

  ‘What if we narrowed it to shoppers who buy white wine and Chill? Now that might be interesting. A bottle of wine and an aerosol can.’

  ‘Still, that’s going to be a lot of hours.’

  ‘Oh.’ Archer frowned, putting on his dark sport coat. ‘Of course, you’re right. Then we’ll explore your idea.’

  ‘I didn’t have one.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  They walked out of the office, down the hall to the elevator.

  ‘Not one solid lead, Q. By now …’

  ‘By now we should have had a concerned citizen giving us a tip. Because somebody besides the killer knows what’s happening. Somebody should have called us by now. Somebody who doesn’t like the killer, a girlfriend who suspects he’s dangerous. A parent or sibling who has noticed strange behavior. Even the crazy people with hare-brained ideas have clammed up. It’s too quiet. That I don’t understand.’

  ‘Yeah, and you know this isn’t going to stop at three. It will happen again. No question.’

  ‘It will,’ Archer agreed.

  ‘Three murders, Q. All of them looking like the same killer. And for no apparent reason.’

  In different situations, in different parts of the city, they’d been killed, and a can of Chill spray had been left at the scene. In a city swarming with tourists, at the peak of Mardi Gras, with hundreds of surveillance cameras mounted everywhere, cops, sheriff deputies and state troopers on every street corner, no one had seen anything.

  ‘Number four is going to bite us in the ass, you know that, right?’

  Archer nodded.

  ‘You know, Q, New Orleans has probably the craziest assortment of characters in the country.’

  They stepped off the elevator and walked out of the building.