Inspired by Murder

  Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  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

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  EPILOGUE

  Also by Audrey J. Cole

  About the Author

  Copyright

  For my neighbor, the drummer

  CHAPTER ONE

  Eric’s blood pressure felt like it had doubled by the time he pulled into the parking lot of his psychiatry practice. He sped into his reserved parking spot before slamming on the brakes. His brake pedal pulsated under his foot from the activation of his anti-lock braking system atop the black ice. He swore as his six-month-old BMW slid into the metal sign post marked RESERVED. The one day a year Seattle had black ice he had to be late for work.

  He got out and walked on literal thin ice to the main entrance of his office. His body tensed from the cold. Seeing his name, Eric Leroy, M.D., etched across the glass depressed him lately. He knew it should be enough. It should be something to be proud of, but he wasn't. He was bored with psychiatry. What he cared about was murder. He wanted to be a writer. A good writer. A great writer. A gifted writer. One who wrote bestsellers and won Pulitzers.

  He felt a rush of heat when he opened the door. Crikey. Patricia Watts, his eight o'clock appointment, was already seated in his newly-remodeled waiting room. He wasn’t sure why this surprised him when it was after eight fifteen.

  She tossed aside her magazine when he came through the door. From the look on her face, you'd think she'd been treading water instead of parking her ass in a comfy chair and catching up on celebrity gossip while she waited for him.

  “Morning.” Eric heard the voice of his twenty-two-year-old secretary. “Working on your novel again this morning?”

  He turned to see her, bright-eyed as usual, waiting eagerly for his response. Telling her about his book was a mistake. She half-smiled at him from behind her desk while she chomped vigorously on a large piece of gum.

  “Just a lot of traffic today,” he said.

  “Novel?” asked his eight o'clock, as though she were part of the conversation.

  He pretended like he hadn't heard the question. Begrudgingly, Eric marched toward his office but turned back before he reached the door.

  “Come on back, Patricia,” he said in a professional tone, trying to rebuild the boundary in their relationship.

  He closed the door behind her as she threw down her purse and plopped herself into one of his leather chairs as if she'd been on her feet for hours. The seat cushion let out a whoosh as it deflated. Eric took a seat in his chair across from her and tried his best to look interested in whatever she might have to say. He reached for his notebook and pen.

  “How about you tell me how things have been going this last week.” He tried to not stare at her cankle crease that became visible below her pant seam after she sat down.

  “Well, I wish you hadn't been late because I have quite a lot I want to talk about.”

  So talk about it, he thought. “Right. Let's get started.”

  He leaned back in his chair and pretended to be engaged as Patricia rattled on about her latest woes. Judging solely by her looks, she was a hard woman to figure out. Her straight gray bob, cut to a blunt line above her jaw, suggested she was uptight. The lack of attention she gave to her figure, however, suggested something else.

  For the last six months, he'd been listening to Patricia bitch about pretty much everyone she encountered. Her problems were always someone else's fault. As he'd had the pleasure of getting to know her, he'd observed Patricia was overindulged and completely absorbed with herself. At fifty-two, he surmised her personality bore no hope of improvement. At least, none that he could offer her. If it weren't at the cost of sounding too dramatic, he'd say listening to her had become beyond exhausting.

  Eric doodled on his notebook as she talked. If he could only tell her the truth in less than clinical terms: you're a whiner. You're a big, fat whiner. Maybe then she’d be forced to look inward. But saying something to that effect would most likely lead to the loss of his practice. So, he allowed her to continue bitching about the newest pain in her ass, while he allowed his mind to drift back to his book. Where it belonged.

  His mind also began to psychoanalyze itself after losing interest in the hopeless, self-obsessed Patricia. His mother was Australian and his father came from a long line of American patriarchs. They both had a love for the arts. Why he had decided to become a doctor he did not know. He realized now that he needed to create.

  He was aware that Patricia had moved the focus of her bitching toward her husband. Poor bastard. Eric had been married once. She was nothing like Patricia. She was beautiful. Patricia was still complaining when he looked down at his wiry hand, startled by what he had drawn.

  He had doodled Patricia lying in a puddle of her own blood with a dismembered arm laying off to the side. A ferocious beast looked ready to devour her, its jaw open wide, exposing ginormous fangs.

  Interesting. Must've been his overactive subconscious.

  Shockingly, Patricia said something intriguing enough to make him look up.

  “I think this all started when I saw my brother die.”

  “How did he die?” he asked, genuinely curious.

  “He was murdered.”

  Eric snapped forward in his chair. “Go on.” He focused on Patricia for the first time that morning.

  “I try not think about it.”

  “Do you think you can tell me what happened?”

  He thought she would benefit from talking about it, especially after she brought it up. He also hoped it would be something he could use in his novel.

  “I was twelve and he was eight. Charlie was his name.” She paused, and he could see she was starting to tear up.

  He handed her a box of tissues from the table beside him.

  “Take your time,” he said, hoping she'd get on with it.

  She dabbed her eyes and seemed to compose herself. “It was a hot summer night. July. I had left my bedroom window open for a breeze. My mother's boyfriend was in a drunken rage.”

  Oh, drat. A domestic affair. But maybe he could use it. He listened closely as she continued.

  “I closed the window so the
noise wouldn't travel around the neighborhood. He was beating my mother, I could hear it all the way down the hall. I knew better than to interfere. But not Charlie.”

  She stopped to dab her eyes again.

  “He finished with my mother but still needed someone to beat on. I heard his heavy footsteps come down the hall. I knew there was nothing I could do to stop him. He flung open my bedroom door and I braced myself for what was coming. He stumbled into my room and, at first, all I saw behind him was the poker stick. I didn't see Charlie until after he swung the poker into the back of my mother's boyfriend's head. But the blow didn't even faze him. He ripped the poker stick out of Charlie’s hands before he took another swing…”

  He waited in silence. After a minute, she went on.

  “I'll never forget the look on Charlie's face after he died.” Tears now freely ran down her face, and she made no effort to wipe them away.

  Eric found it hard to feel sorry for her. He only felt for poor little Charlie. He wished it had been Patricia the boyfriend had killed. Charlie sounded nice.

  When their time was up and she had collected herself, he offered his condolences and gave her his standard, Well, I think you've got a lot to think about response before pushing her out the door. He liked that last bit about the look on Charlie’s face. He pictured Charlie, his soft brown eyes staring into nothingness and his hair matted with blood. That he could use in his book. At least their session hadn't been a complete waste.

  Eric was eager to get home that evening and work on his book. Patricia's story had inspired him. He let himself into his small, modern apartment, poured a glass of wine, and sat down to write. He sat by his floor-to-ceiling window, enjoying the company of the city lights. The evening skyline was a mix of modern skyscrapers and smaller, historic buildings.

  He could've easily bought a house in the suburbs with more space and a yard. But that felt like it was for someone with a wife, kids, and a dog. Not that he would've minded a dog.

  So here he was, over forty, living in a small apartment, with his only heir to the world being his psychiatry practice full of self-obsessed, albeit well-paying clients. But that would all change when he published his bestseller.

  The words flowed easily that night. But when he reread the pages, he knew it wasn't the edge he needed. The scenario wasn't quite right for his book. His writing felt more tangible and had improved after hearing Patricia's account. But he needed something more.

  He shut down his laptop and had a terrifying thought. What if he died tomorrow, before he had written and published his brilliant novel? Before he accomplished his true purpose for being on this earth? It would mean he was no better than Patricia, just a waste of human life.

  The week dragged on and he attended several more pity parties at his office for many different clients. The rush he’d felt from Patricia's account had already faded; he realized he still had a whole novel to write and was out of ideas. He wanted to craft at least three more murders but had no life experience to draw from.

  He was down in the dumps again the next Monday morning when he met with Patricia. She looked the same as always, all her efforts going to her hairdo and none toward her physique. He crossed one of his lanky legs over the other and half-listened to her complain about her husband going out of town for the week on business. His mind drifted back to her account of Charlie's slaying. It dawned on him that he was jealous she had witnessed her brother's murder. That was exactly the sort of thing he needed for his book.

  He wanted to write a masterpiece so bad he could kill for it. For reasons he couldn't explain, he examined Patricia from across the room, as a hunter would eye his game. She continued to grumble about her husband's business trip. This gave him an idea.

  CHAPTER TWO

  “We should do this more often,” Adams said.

  Stephenson glanced at his partner as he took the exit for the Auburn Airport. “More often? I don't know how often we can make an arrest by answering a Craigslist ad for items stolen during a home invasion turned double homicide.”

  “No, I mean go undercover. Even if it is my day off.” Adams pulled his sweatshirt over his holstered firearm. “I'm good at this.”

  “You better be good at this. I'm planning to make a clean arrest and make it home in one piece.”

  “Don't worry, we will. What could go wrong when you're with me? I should be the one concerned; you're the rookie here.”

  Stephenson smirked. Although he'd been working homicide less than two years, he had proven he could handle himself in a life and death situation.

  “Does it seem weird to you that these guys are storing their stolen goods in an airplane hangar? That can't be cheap rent,” Adams said.

  “They're not renting it. After Jason told me where to meet him, I checked and found the hangar is registered to Walter Perry, Jason and Bryce's father. He died in 2012.”

  “That makes more sense. How convenient for them to inherit such a large storage space when they make their living burglarizing homes.”

  Stephenson turned the unmarked vehicle into the airport and slowly headed in the direction of the hangars. As they got closer, he spotted the two brothers standing in front of a T-hangar halfway down the row.

  Stephenson recognized Jason and Bryce Perry, both convicted felons who'd been the prime suspects in a series of home invasions over the last few months. When their latest robbery ended in the fatal stabbing of the two homeowners, he and Adams had taken over the investigation. Their deaths were two of the most brutal killings he’d ever seen. He stopped the car a few feet in front of them.

  “Let's do this,” Adams said before stepping out.

  Jason approached Stephenson as he got out of the car. “I thought you said you couldn't bring anyone to help you? My brother could've stayed home.”

  “Tony said he could come last minute.” Stephenson motioned to his partner. “I have a bad back, so I figured I could use the extra help. The TV looked pretty heavy.”

  “It's not that heavy, but whatever.”

  Jason looked back and forth between Adams and Stephenson before opening the door on the far side of the hangar. He and Bryce went in first. Bryce held the door open for Stephenson and Adams to follow.

  Jason flicked on the overhead light. Although the hangar was only a third full, the two detectives could see it contained everything they were hoping for. Two large flat screens leaned against one wall. TV stands, a stereo, speakers, all kinds of electronics, home office equipment, and a few pieces of accent furniture were also stored in the large space. It was the final piece of evidence they needed to make their arrest.

  “So here's the TV,” Jason said, pointing to the larger of two flat screens.

  Adams pulled out his badge when Bryce turned around to face them. Stephenson reached inside his jacket and placed his thumb on the release lever of his gun holster.

  “Jason and Bryce Perry, you're under arrest for—”

  Seeing Adams' badge, Jason shoved his brother into Stephenson and bolted toward the door. Stephenson pushed Bryce out of his arms. Adams drew his firearm and fixed it on Bryce while Stephenson turned and chased after Jason.

  “Get down on the ground and put your hands on your head!” Adams ordered.

  Bryce froze, staring at Adams in wide-eyed shock.

  “Now!” Adams said.

  Keeping his eyes on the detective, Bryce slowly got to his knees and complied.

  Stephenson ran out of the hangar in time to see Jason disappear around the corner of the building. Stephenson sprinted after him. When he rounded the corner, he watched Jason turn left down another row of hangars. After turning down the same row, Stephenson picked up speed and started to close the gap.

  A small, bright yellow aircraft was parked outside an open hangar and Stephenson realized Jason was headed straight for it. Stephenson watched the pilot manually spin the propeller before the engine roared to life.

  Stephenson spotted the gun in Jason's hand as he neared the plane. The p
ilot threw up his hands when he saw the gun pointed at his head. Stephenson stopped twenty feet from the plane and drew his 9mm. He raised his weapon at Jason, but no longer had a clean shot.

  Jason stood behind the pilot with his gun to his head, using him as a human shield.

  “Drop the weapon!” Stephenson yelled over the rumble of the plane's engine.

  Jason ignored the order and backed up to the door of the plane. With his arm around the pilot's neck and his gun pressed against the side of his head, Jason climbed into the small aircraft and pulled the pilot in after him.

  Stephenson aimed his gun at the plane's windshield, but Jason sat behind the pilot who completely blocked his shot. The plane's engine grew louder and the aircraft came directly toward him. Stephenson jumped out of its path as the plane picked up speed.

  The aircraft sped toward the taxiway as Stephenson holstered his gun and raced after it. He pushed himself as hard as he could. Despite the plane's increasing speed, Stephenson managed to come within arm's length of the tail.

  The plane sped up and the distance between him and the tail widened. When the plane slowed to make the turn onto the taxiway, Stephenson knew this was his only chance to stop it. Already running as fast as he could, Stephenson threw himself forward and dove onto the tail. His hands slipped, but he managed to grab hold of the rudder cable. His feet dragged violently underneath him as the plane veered to the right.

  His ankle folded underneath him against the pavement as the plane pulled him across the taxiway, but he was struggling too hard to hold on to the cable to notice. The plane bounced across the grass that separated the taxiway from the runway. Stephenson strained to maintain his grip as the plane swerved onto the adjoining runway.

  Out the corner of his eye, he spotted Adams speeding across the taxiway in their unmarked vehicle. Adams drove over the grass and brought the car to a stop in front of the plane. The plane took a sharp turn to avoid colliding with the vehicle and Stephenson cried out as his legs scraped against the pavement.

  One of his hands lost its grip as the plane bumped across the grass before continuing back onto the taxiway. The plane took a hard left, causing his other hand to slip off the cable. He rolled to a stop as the plane crashed into a parked four-seat Cessna.