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  CHEATED BY DEATH

  A Jeff Resnick Mystery

  by L.L. Bartlett

  Copyright © 2010 by L. L. Bartlett

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

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

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  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and you did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  CHEATED BY DEATH

  A Jeff Resnick Mystery

  by L.L. Bartlett

  DEDICATION

  In Memory Of

  Leonard F. Bartlett

  1926-2009

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  The manuscript for CHEATED BY DEATH has been read by many past and present critique partners over the years. My thanks to all of them. However, several of them stand out in my mind. They are:

  Leslie Budwitz

  Kate Doran

  Doranna Durgin

  Gwen Nelson

  Sharon Wildwind was generous with her medical expertise, and Colleen Keuhne and Shelly Franz helped with proofreading and file formatting.

  My thanks to all of you.

  For more information on the Jeff Resnick Mysteries, please visit my website:

  LLBartlett.com

  CHEATED BY DEATH

  A Jeff Resnick Mystery

  by L.L. Bartlett

  ~ PROLOGUE ~

  It was not an easy death.

  But it wasn’t a satisfying death, either. Witnessing it didn’t cancel out the emptiness. That never went away no matter how many pills, how much whiskey or empty sex. It was always there, eating at the soul like acid through wood.

  The old man’s eyes stared vacantly at the gray sky, his mouth hung open, as though to scream. But the hollow wail had never come. Knees blown away, then gut shot—his empty belly had been drained of life.

  Revenge wasn’t powerful enough a word to convey the emotion behind it. The Bible said an eye for an eye, and the old man had finally paid. Maybe he’d even welcomed it. He’d lived with his sin for more than two decades.

  Payment in full.

  Almost.

  Scuffed boots kicked the lifeless corpse. Each death brought closure nearer. The killings gave life purpose. One person remained. One life left to snuff out . . . one last person to blame.

  And it didn’t matter how many others were sacrificed to accomplish it.

  CHAPTER

  1

  My long-dead father came back to life on a mild afternoon in early November. He’d never been dead it turned out, but I didn’t know that at the time. It’s funny how one incident can snowball and change your life forever.

  Take me. Eight months ago, I was mugged; had my arm broken and my skull fractured. That’s when things changed. The way I see things changed. Feelings come to me, and sometimes fragments of information. Stuff that makes me interested in other stuff.

  Stuff that gets me into trouble.

  And then there are times when I’m still blindsided by life.

  On that balmy November afternoon two weeks before Thanksgiving, I was playing one-on-one basketball with my half brother, Dr. Richard Alpert. He’s twelve years older than me, and rich as sin, but he still cheats at one-on-one. He’d just tripped me—definitely against the Marquis of Queensbury rules, should they ever be applied to basketball—and I ended up face down on the dusty driveway, panting for breath. He helped me up.

  “That’s enough for me,” I said.

  “Come on, Jeff. You’re not hurt.”

  I brushed off my sweatpants. “Maybe I should go to a decent quack and find out.”

  “Sticks and stones,” he countered, dribbling the ball.

  “You’ve got a height advantage.”

  Richard looked down at me. “What’s six inches?”

  “And forty pounds on me.”

  “So eat more,” he said, making a sweet lay-up shot.

  I captured the ball and dodged him. “But I’m an orphan.”

  He skirted round me. “I’m the orphan. Your father’s still alive.”

  I stopped dead, thinking I’d heard wrong. He snatched the ball, sent it arcing for another two points—and missed.

  My fatigue vanished as adrenalin coursed through me. “What did you say?”

  The amusement left his face. “Your father’s alive.”

  My eyes narrowed. “He’s dead. He died when I was a kid.”

  “Who told you that?”

  I didn’t know. All I knew was that the bastard left us and never looked back, and that he was dead.

  That I believed he was dead.

  Richard bounced the ball, caught it, and hitched it under his arm. “I saw him at the clinic yesterday. He’s a patient.” Richard doesn’t need to work, but he volunteers his time a couple days a week at the low-income clinic associated with the University at Buffalo’s School of Medicine located at one of the local hospitals.

  “What’s wrong with him?”

  “Emphysema. He’s in pretty bad shape. On oxygen twenty-four hours a day.”

  The ground rolled beneath me. I got a flash of something—too quick to register—more an impression. Of death.

  And hadn’t Richard broken some kind of privacy laws by mentioning it?

  “Why tell me now? I don’t care about him.”

  “That’s what I figured you’d say.”

  “I don’t!” I said, the statement negated by the emotion behind it.

  “Then why are you so upset?”

  “For thirty-two years I thought the guy was dead. Finding out he isn’t threw me, that’s all. Come on, let’s go for another game.”

  He shrugged, bounced the ball, faked a throw, Nikes squeaking on the drive as he pivoted then threw for real. Rim shot.

  I grabbed it. “Is he dying?”

  “I thought you didn’t care?”

  “I don’t.” The ball hit the backboard, missed the hoop.

  “Yeah, he’s dying.” His back to me, Richard dribbled, turned, went for a long shot. Two points.

  I captured the ball. “Did he know who you were?”

  “I said my name a couple of times, but I don’t think it registered.”

  I bounced the ball, threw it. It danced around the rim. Missed.

  Richard seized it.

  “Are you sure it was him?” I asked.

  “Chester Resnick. Do you want me to get his address?”

  “What for?”

  “I know you’ll want to send flowers after he’s gone.” He tossed the ball at me, and hit me in the chest.

  “Screw you. I wouldn’t waste my time—let alone money.”

  I bounced the ball a few times, went to throw and he blocked me, and took back the ball. I wiped the sweat from my eyes. “When will you see him again?”

  “I’ll find out his next appointment and make sure I see him instead of one of the other doctors.”

  “Don’t bother. He left us. Never got in touch with me. Why the hell would I want to see him?” I took a deep breath. “Look, I’m sorry. I guess this got to me more than I’d like.”

  Richard dribbled, dribbled, dribbled. For such an old guy, he kept maneuvering out of my reach. I made a grab for the ball, but he was too quick.

&n
bsp; “Gimme the damn ball,” I growled.

  Dribble, dribble. “If you decide you do want to meet him, don’t wait too long.” He took a shot. It soared through the hoop and net. Perfect.

  I snatched the ball, and started getting one of those feelings—the ones I know better than to ignore—about my father. Richard ducked quick, took it from me again. I hadn’t even known the old man was alive, and now I knew with certainty he’d soon be dead. One of my skull-pounding headaches, a remnant of the mugging that had nearly killed me, stirred.

  “Don’t worry, Jeff. Nothing says you have to see him or talk to him, let alone make your peace with him.”

  Slam dunk.

  I picked up the ball and started for my apartment over the garage. “I’ve got to get ready for work.”

  “Think about it,” he called after me.

  “Sure,” I grumbled. “Later.”

  Much later.

  That night I tended bar at a local tavern where I work part-time. The Whole Nine Yards was nothing fancy, just a neighborhood sports bar with one large-screen TV and a middle-class clientele. I was grateful for a slow night, because thoughts of my father kept me preoccupied. After screwing up my fourth drink order, my boss, Tom Link, asked if I was trying to drive him into bankruptcy. I apologized, but he laughed, gave me a thumbs-up, and headed down the bar to talk to one of his cronies.

  I was drawing beers for two guys watching the Sabres pregame show on the tube when Maggie Brennan, my lady of five months, walked in. The bar wasn’t on her usual route home from work. She looked professional in her business suit, her shoulder-length auburn hair wind-tossed and sexy.

  “Hey, baby,” I said, using my best Bogie slur. “Can I buy you a drink?”

  She slid smoothly onto a bar stool. “I think I could be coaxed into it.”

  “Cosmopolitan?” I offered.

  “How about a glass of cabernet?”

  “Coming right up.” I poured the wine and put out a fresh bowl of pretzels. “What brings you here?” As if I didn’t know.

  “A little bird called and said you might need a friendly face to talk to.”

  “This little bird wouldn’t happen to be six-two and sporting a mustache, would he?”

  “He might.” Her expression softened. “Richard told me about your dad.”

  “He’s not my dad,” I snapped, instantly regretting it. “Sorry, babe, but he was there for my conception—and not much else.”

  “I know about how he left your mom and you.”

  “Yeah, so the hell with him.”

  She raised her glass in salute. “The hell with him.”

  “Right. Why would I want to meet him, let alone get to know him?”

  “He’s not worth your time.”

  I frowned at her too-casual attitude.

  “I’m just agreeing with you,” she said, and took another sip of wine. “Yeah, why would you want to know the man who gave you life? You don’t need to find out what went wrong with his marriage to your mother. But what if he’d wanted to be more to you? What if leaving was a mistake he always regretted?”

  “And what if it wasn’t? What if he is just some piece of shit who isn’t worth my time?”

  “And what if he isn’t and you never prove it to yourself before he dies? Will you be able to live with that?”

  I glared at her, yet some part of me was thinking exactly the same thing.

  “Jeff?” Tom caught my eye, thumbed toward the hockey fans.

  I poured another round and rang up the sale. I took my time washing the glasses, thinking over what Maggie had said.

  A couple of guys came in and ordered mixed drinks. “I’d better go,” she told me and collected her purse, then leaned across the bar to give me a kiss. “You don’t have to make a decision tonight. Just think about the pros and cons of meeting him.”

  I rested my fingers on top of her hand. Because of this psychic crap I’m cursed with, she was one of the few people I felt comfortable touching. “Okay.”

  “I’ll be home if you want to talk later,” she said, and headed out the door.

  Despite my efforts to keep busy, the rest of the evening dragged, leaving me plenty of time to consider all she’d said.

  I kept catching sight of myself in the mirror behind the bar. Did I look like the old man? How much of my character reflected his? That sobering thought haunted me in the form of relentless self-examination, reigniting thirty-two years of submerged anger.

  “Don’t wait too long,” Richard had said.

  I’d already waited thirty-two years.

  Far too long.

  I didn’t sleep well that night, obsessed with vague, unpleasant dreams. Images of a dead, faceless, white-haired man, and an overpowering feeling of dread haunted my sleep. I didn’t need a shrink to help me figure out the significance of that subconscious message.

  I chose the phone book as reading material to go with my morning coffee. Only two Resnicks were listed—I was one of them. The other was C. Resnick. I didn’t call. That might indicate I gave a shit about a man I barely remembered.

  I wasn’t scheduled to work that evening and spent the day staring out the window or pacing the confines of my apartment. Finally I hiked down the road to the community golf course and shot a roll of black-and-white film. The temperature had reverted to autumn norms, and the gray sky made the landscape look as bleak as I felt. I returned to my darkroom and developed the negatives, but didn’t bother with more than making a contact sheet. Photography’s a hobby that sometimes lands me money. That day it merely kept me occupied.

  Twilight came and I grew tired of my own company. Almost five months before, I’d moved into the apartment above the garage —or the carriage house, as Richard’s grandmother used to call it. The big house, where Richard and his wife, Brenda, lived, was across the driveway. Located in Amherst, at the edge of Buffalo, New York, it was less than an estate—but not by much. The neighborhood screamed old money, although I think Richard was the last remaining descendent of that wealth.

  Using my key, I let myself in. Richard’s kitchen was cavernous and gloomy compared to my snug digs. I hit the light switch, grabbed a chair at the table, and thumbed through the local section of that morning’s edition of The Buffalo News to kill time.

  The Police Blotter was full of the usual: DUI, assaults, robbery, rape. The State round-up on the side column caught my eye. A shooting somewhere in the Southern Tier. A one paragraph story told where, when, and how, but not who, pending notification of next of kin. Poor bastard. Just another deer season fatality. Right?

  Maybe not.

  I stared at the paragraph until the words began to blur. Something about the assemblage of facts bothered me, but I didn't have time to think about it as Richard’s Lincoln Town Car pulled up the drive. I tossed the paper aside. The door handle rattled, and a few moments later a tired, depressed-looking Richard came through the butler's pantry and entered the kitchen.

  I looked over my shoulder. “Tough day?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Where’s Brenda going?” I asked, as the car backed down the driveway again.

  “To pick up a pizza. You want to stay?”

  “I’ll think about it.”

  He dumped his coat on the back of a kitchen chair and headed straight for the scotch bottle in a cabinet above the sink. He plunked ice into an old-fashioned glass and filled it.

  “What happened?”

  He took a deep swallow. “I had to tell a woman that her three-year-old daughter’s brain tumor was malignant and inoperable. We discussed radiation and chemotherapy, but that sweet little girl is going to die.”

  My gut tightened.

  “Then not ten minutes later, an older woman came in. Her son’s pit bull attacked her a week ago. She didn’t think her health insurance would cover an emergency room visit, so she made an appointment and waited. Between the infection and nerve damage, she’ll probably lose the use of her hand.” He took a shuddering breath, and then anoth
er long pull of the scotch.

  I listened to Richard vent for another ten minutes. He was always too hard on himself when he couldn’t help his patients. We rarely talked about his own situation. Five months before, he’d tended to a shooting victim. He hadn’t been wearing latex gloves. Five tests for HIV had been negative. He had one more to go before we could all breathe easier. After hearing about his day, I couldn’t ask if he’d remembered to dig up information on my father. Especially since I supposedly didn’t care.

  Brenda came in at last, carrying a pizza box. “Oh, good, I was hoping you’d be here. There’s no way the two of us can eat all this.” She gave me a quick peck on the cheek, deposited the pizza on the counter and went off to hang up her coat.

  Richard and Brenda are a study in contrasts. He’s tall, she’s petite; he’s into computers, she’s into antiques; he’s white, she’s black. She would’ve made one helluva Boy Scout: loyal, trustworthy and sometimes she’s got the gift of second sight. Not like me, but she’s a kindred spirit. Most important, she’s family.

  When she came back, she took plates out of the cupboard while I gathered a knife, spatula and napkins, and Richard poured a caffeine-free Coke for her and got me a beer. We sat at the table, each taking a slice of pizza.

  “Did you tell him?” Brenda asked, and took a big bite.

  “I completely forgot,” Richard said. “I saw your father today.”

  Every muscle in my body tensed. “And?”

  “When I told him who I was, he cried. Apparently he has a lot of regrets.”

  Was I one of them?

  “He didn’t know you were back in Buffalo,” Richard continued.

  “How’d he know I ever left?”

  Richard shrugged. “He knew you were in the Army, and that you’d lived in New York. He even knew your wife was murdered. He seemed to know more about your past than I do.”

  I wasn’t sure how to react to that—anger came close. “Then why didn’t he ever contact me? Why—?”