Red Julie (An Olivia Miller Mystery Book 2)

Copyright 2014 J.A. Whiting

Cover copyright 2012 Carl Graves, Extended Imagery

Formatting by
www.polgarusstudio.com

Proofreading by Everything Indie

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, or incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to locales, actual events, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved.

No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from J. A. Whiting.

Martin Andersen drove his black Mercedes 550 past the driveway of his beach house. His eyes scanned the darkness for people, cars, or anything that looked suspicious. The moon was high in the sky. The road was empty. He drove to the end of the quiet, side street and turned around, deciding that things looked safe.

His headlights illuminated the rising garage door and when it was fully elevated, the Mercedes eased into the middle bay of the three-car garage. Andersen immediately hit the button and waited for the door to close, and only then unlocked the car door and emerged into the blackness of his garage. Andersen stood in the hot dark, holding his breath. Cold sweat caused his shirt to stick to his back. He could not detect anything out of the ordinary, so he entered the foyer of his four thousand square foot contemporary home but did not turn on any lights. He used a pen light to shine on the staircase that took him to the main living area on the second floor of the house. Andersen could hear the ocean pounding against the rocks outside. He loved this house perched on a bluff of the rocky coast at Perkins Cove, Maine. The spectacular view, the layout, the grounds. He had worked hard and this house was one of the rewards of his financial good fortune.

But not tonight. Tonight he wished he was anywhere but here. He stood fixed at the top of the stairs, listening. His heart was hammering as his vision grew accustomed to the darkness in the room. His eyes flicked about searching the shadows, making sure that he was alone. Sensing no one lurking, he hurried to the master bedroom to access the wall safe. A month ago he had fled without the contents of the safe. Andersen knew he was taking a chance returning tonight. His hands shook as he punched in the code, turned the knob, and swung open the small, heavy metal door.

Something to his right caught his attention and he turned to see the light on the security panel of his bedroom wall blinking red in the darkness, indicating that the door from the deck into the kitchen was open. He froze. A bead of sweat rolled down his forehead, traveled along his eyebrow to his temple and continued down the side of his face. Tension caused the membranes lining his throat to constrict so that he could barely take in any air. He stuffed the cash and credit cards into his pants and rammed the gun into his jacket pocket. As his feet moved slowly across the plush carpeting, he was thankful that he had given in to Rodney’s insistence to carpet over the wood floors in this room for maximum quiet.

He listened at the door. He had to get to his car. Hearing nothing he sucked in a deep breath and took a step into the hallway. Andersen stood stock still trying to sense any movement in the dark space of his own home. Nothing. Did the security system malfunction? His auditory system still on high alert, he moved his feet inch by slow inch, holding his breath now, and crept down the hall. Andersen edged into the living room.

White, bright light flooded the space and stabbed Andersen’s optic nerve, the sudden transition from dark to light blinding him for half a second.
Oh God.
He squinted. Two men were standing near the far wall of his living room. Both were wearing suits giving the impression that they were businessmen, but Andersen knew better. Bile rose in his throat. His body coursed with adrenaline.

“Mr. Andersen,” the shorter man said in greeting. “We noticed that you had come home.”

The taller man had the hint of a smile on his mouth, but his eyes were cold and dead.

“How did you get in here?” Andersen said with forced indignation. His heart was beating like a jack hammer.

“You have something we want,” the shorter man said.

Andersen’s mind was racing. He knew what these men were capable of. He had to get to his car. He put his hand in his pocket and took a step towards the staircase that would lead back to the lower level garage.

“I would stay where you are, Mr. Andersen.” The shorter man lifted a gun and pointed it at Andersen’s chest.

From inside his pocket, Andersen adjusted his trembling hand and his index finger found and contracted against the small piece of metal. His gun fired through the fabric of his jacket into the man’s stomach. Not what Andersen was aiming for, but it would do. The man jolted, dropped his gun, and slipped to the floor.

Andersen whirled for the door to the garage and, pulling his gun from his pocket, shot wildly at the taller man. His panic and inexperience caused the bullet to travel low, missing the man’s core, but grazing him in the calf of his left leg which was enough to slow him down.

Andersen’s foot missed the top step of the staircase and his feet scrambled in the empty air attempting to find something solid. His back cracked into the stair treads and he careened down fourteen marble steps to the foyer floor. Gasping, he half crawled, half ran into the garage and to the Mercedes. He flung the driver side door open, but before he could get in, a hand caught his shoulder. The darkness of the garage shrouded the facial features of the man who gripped him, but Andersen knew who it was.

He twisted to the right and used the elbow of his right arm to smack the attacker in the throat. The attacker grunted and paused, but his hands were like iron and they clamped around Andersen’s neck as the man’s knee came up and caught Andersen in the groin. Andersen groaned and tried to contort himself away. He gripped his attacker’s throat with his left hand while raising his right hand which still held his gun. A blast filled the air, but it was not from Andersen’s weapon. Andersen doubled over from the bullet that entered his gut just as he pulled the trigger of his own weapon. That bullet hit the attacker in the shoulder and sent him reeling back onto the floor of the garage. Andersen had a grip on the man’s necklace, the chain twisted between his fingers, and it ripped off in his hand as the man hurtled backwards.

Andersen staggered to his car, punched the button to raise the garage door, and stomped the gas pedal, sending the car flying back, scraping the roof of the Mercedes against the rising door.

The moonlight danced over Andersen’s car as it shot up Shore Road and veered onto Route 1 towards the highway. In minutes, the headlights of a speeding car showed in Andersen’s rearview mirror and, wheezing and gripping the steering wheel, he pressed harder on the gas pedal. The loss of blood combined with the pain of the bullet lodged in his core caused his vision to blur and he fought to keep the car on the road.

A blast sent a bullet into the back window of the Mercedes, shattering the glass with a roar. Andersen flinched and his car swerved into the opposite lane.

He took the turn for the highway too widely going close to ninety miles an hour. A man in an oncoming vehicle had only a second to react to the black missile flying toward him. He jammed on his brake and pulled the wheel to the right, but this action only presented the driver’s side to the Mercedes, which exploded into it, crushing the car and killing its occupant instantly. The Mercedes flipped over twice and filled the air with a sickening screech of crushing metal as the car skidded on its roof to a stop.

The car in pursuit of Andersen jolted to a halt just in front of the smashed car. Two men jumped from the vehicle, one limping, the other clutching at his bloody shoulder. The limping man was the one with dead eyes who had earlier been standing in Andersen’s living room. Blood soaked one leg of his pants. He stood next to the car while the other man strode to the overturned Mercedes.

Andersen was lying in the street on his back, his blood pooling under him, his legs caught in the mangled wreckage. He opened his eyes as the man with the bloody shoulder approached. The man held a knife. The light from the streetlight glinted off the blade. He knelt.

Andersen’s screams would have frozen the blood of anyone who heard them.

Olivia forced herself to sit straighter in the driver’s seat as she turned the radio up and opened her window a crack to let the cool, late-night breeze flow against her face. She shook her head a bit to throw off the drowsiness that had come over her. The movement loosened some of the light brown, shoulder length hair from her ponytail.

She was glad that she had waited until midnight to leave Medford to make the trip north because she had the highway mostly to herself, but now her eyelids were feeling heavy as she traveled the final few miles to the off ramp that would lead her to Route 1. She always felt happy anticipation on the trip to Maine and she was looking forward to being in her aunt’s house on the coast again. Only it wasn’t her aunt’s house anymore. It was Olivia’s house now, and this would be the first time she stayed there as the owner.

She breathed a heavy sigh. Olivia still couldn’t believe that Aggie was dead, gone for a month now, and that she wouldn’t be there to greet Olivia as she pulled into the driveway. Aggie had raised Olivia from the time she was a year old, and while Olivia was growing up they divided their time between Cambridge, Massachusetts and Ogunquit.

Just over a year ago, Aggie had given up her apartment in Cambridge when she decided to retire from her teaching position at Boston College law school. She made the Ogunquit beach house her permanent residence. Olivia rented an apartment with three of her friends near the Tufts University campus while she was a student there, but the beach house was where she called home. Olivia loved the house and the town of Ogunquit as much as Aggie had.

Olivia saw the highway sign indicating the exit for Ogunquit and the Yorks. She put her blinker on and moved the car to the right lane to take the ramp. The headlights cut through the darkness, and Olivia’s eyes widened as she slammed on her brakes, causing her Jeep to skid onto the right shoulder of the exit.

A car was overturned near the end of the ramp, resting on its roof. Another car with its side and front end crushed was facing the wrong way in the street. Olivia thought she could make out someone in the shadows running away from the overturned car. There were no other people in sight.

Olivia flung her door open, leaped from the driver’s seat and ran to the overturned vehicle. A man was on his back in the road, half in and half out of the car, his legs tangled in the metal. His eyes were closed. Blood covered his chest, stomach, neck, and face. Olivia knelt beside him. She gingerly touched his shoulder. The man’s eyes popped open. Olivia jumped.

“It’s okay. You’ll be okay,” she said. The man grabbed at Olivia’s arms.

“Hold on. I’ll be right back,” Olivia told him. The man made grunting noises deep in his throat and shook his head. His eyes were wide and wild. Olivia pulled away as he was trying to grab her jacket.

“I need to get my cell phone. I’m going to call the ambulance,” she told him. Olivia ran to her car and grabbed the cell phone out of her bag. She punched in ‘911’ and reported the accident as she rushed back to the man.

“They’re coming. Help’s on the way.” Olivia knelt. She glanced at the other crumpled car. No one emerged from it. No one else was on the road.

The man on the ground grasped Olivia’s jacket lapels. His eyes bulged. He gibbered at her. Mouthfuls of blood spilled from between his open lips. Olivia’s stomach lurched but she fought to keep her face neutral.

“You’ll be okay,” she told him. Her voice was shaky. The man tried to raise his head while still gibbering at her, his hand clutching the side of her jacket.