Richard Bannister [Bannister - Devil’s Pasture

Devil's Pasture is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

No part of this book may be used, reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage or retrieval system, without the written permission of the author, except where permitted by law, or in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

Copyright Richard Bannister 2019.

All rights reserved.

Devil's Pasture

Some Secrets are Deadly

1.0R2

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Many thanks to Joyce Scott, Lindy Schasiepen, and Paula Gleicher Greenstreet for their much appreciated time and effort in reading an advance draft and giving valuable feedback.

Much gratitude to my wife Judi, for her love, for her unwavering support and wisdom, for tirelessly re-reading the manuscript, and for her patience during my long hours of writing. This book is dedicated to her.

Cover photography:

Tyler Nix

Roberto Nickson

PROLOGUE

I WAS TRAPPED. A few boxes of cleaning products stacked against a wall told me I was in a storeroom. The only light came from a long narrow window set close to the ceiling. Even if I found a way to climb up there and break the wire-reinforced glass, I couldn't squeeze throughand I'm a slim woman. I'd thrown my weight against the locked door until my shoulder was bruised, but it was sturdy and unyielding.

My memories were fragmented and missing, and my thoughts kept falling out of sequence. Only an elusive picture of leaving the maintenance lockup behind the Brockway Apartments hovered at the fringes of my mind.

I ran my fingers through my hair, trying to soothe my throbbing head. My hand came away covered with streaks of bright red blood.

It explained my amnesia. How long was I out?

My mouth felt parched and sour, and my clothing looked dirty and wrinkled but still intacta reliefhowever, my trusty Sig Sauer pistol was missing. My captors had every opportunity to do whatever they wanted with me, but it appeared I hadn't suffered the humiliation.

I had walked into a trap despite my training. It should have been enough: four years in the military police, serving in Afghanistan, four years as a police officer in the LAPD, five years as a detective, here in Stockbridge. Until Townsend suspended mefor bucking the system when it got in the way of me doing my job.

For getting too close to the truth, more likely. Whatever good, it would do him. He'd been riding me ever since I got back from medical leave. Lieutenant Townsend was a misogynist, who once called me a mouthy bitch inflicted on him by Chief Kane as part of his social experiment into twenty-first-century policing. He often used unflattering phrases to insult my mixed-race heritage. One look at his wife was enough to tell me the lieutenant was a bully at home as well as work. He didn't leave marks, at least not physical ones you could see. But when his wife came to the office, he'd speak to her in his overbearing voice, and I would see her flinch as if preparing to get out of the way of his hand.

My suspension had not stopped me investigating the murders, even though I knew Townsend would fire me if he found out. But after pursuing Beth and Ashley's killers for nine days, I was no closer to discovering their identity. I had no doubt they were responsible for imprisoning me here and leaving me to die.

Someone must be tracking my movements. It's the only way they could have kept such close tabs on me and thwarted my investigation so successfully. Could it be the reporter, Kayla Ellis, who had sources everywhere, and published inside information about my case? Scott Prentiss, my partner, was giving details of our inquiry to his new girlfriend. Chris Andrews and Mark Davies had both helped me. Was it for show, until I got too close for comfort?

Was there anyone I could trust? I felt a white-hot surge of anger at the men who'd put me there. My memory was recovering because I remembered two of them coming out of the shadows, then pain, bright and sharp bursting through my body.

If I were about to die there, my biggest regret would be my failure in bringing those responsible for the recent deaths to justice. Did Jake Kennedy have time to feel a similar regret right before he died?

Four months had passed since Dispatch sent Jake and me to a robbery in progress at the Highdale Bank on Broad Street. I absently fingered the scars where the pellets hit my arm. Only five, fortunately. Procedure would have had us take cover behind the cruiser as soon as we arrived at the bank. But civilians were everywhere, and we didn't want them caught in the crossfire. One of the robbers, Kidd Hildegard, came out of the bank and pointed a pump-action shotgun in our direction. Most of the first blast hit me squarely in the vest and knocked me off my feet.

Instead of returning fire, Jake paused a moment to look how badly I was hurt. He wasn't wearing a vest and caught the second blast in his chest, pulverizing his heart and lungs. I put Hildegard down with two shots from my weapon, then rolled over to tend to Jake. I thought I caught a flicker of recognition in his eyes, then nothing.

I was out on medical leave for two of the four months since Jake Kennedy's death. I have asked myself a thousand times why he ran toward the bank so unprotected and took his eyes off the bandit to check on me.

I know he loved me, but what the hell was he thinking?

I couldn't say if Jake were my soul mate. But for the time we were together, I was happier than I can ever remember.

Self-pity wasn't helping me escape. The odor of hot wood assailed my nostrils. Smoke was seeping around the locked door and filling the room.

My captors had torched the building.

I had barely enough time to come up with a plan.

CHAPTER 1

9 Days Earlier

THE MORNING SUNLIGHT slanted through the trees, casting dappled light on the patchwork of abandoned appliances, car tires and human detritus filling the wasteland behind the Brockway Apartments. I parked inside the police tape and shivered as I hurried toward the north side of the three-story building. I'd been hot after my morning run and shower, but I now wished I'd picked up my windbreaker. My white cotton shirt and gray slacks offered little protection against the chilly September morning air.

When the apartments were built some two decades ago, the tenants were working families, appreciative of somewhere clean and modern to live. Now, after years of neglect, the buildings looked dilapidated, and uncollected trash stood in piles. In the last few years, they had appeared on our radar as reports of criminal activity had escalated, and the perpetrators of two arson attacks remained at large .

A sinking feeling of guilt was lodged in my stomach for not returning the dead reporter's calls. It's unusual to identify a murder victim so quickly, but her purse was found near her body. One of the responders corroborated her ID as Elizabeth 'Beth' Gervais, a journalist for the Daily Examiner. The very same person who had left me numerous phone messages over the past week saying she had detailed evidence of crimes. But I had let a spate of robberies distract me.

Or so I told myself. But what if my neglect had put Beth in danger, caused her death?

I rounded the end of the building and pulled up short, my heart racing, my mouth dry with expectation. Beth was lying on her back near the base of a tree, one arm above her head. A bloody gash across her neck, the deep red of raw meat, left her head at an impossible angle. Her eyes were fixed, staring skyward but seeing nothing, her face oddly relaxed. But even in death, she was beautiful. Beth always had a trim athletic build. I hadn't heard from her in sixteen years beyond seeing her byline in the local paper online, but it was difficult to imagine that the friend who had been such a tumultuous influence on my life was now deceased.