Dangerous & Deadly- The Nick Myers Series

  The Nick Myers Series

  (Books 1 - 2)

  DANGEROUS & DEADLY

  Volume 1

  This is a complete work of fiction.

  Copyright© 2019 Tanya R. Taylor

  All Rights are reserved.

  No portion of this work may be reproduced,

  copied or transmitted in any form without

  the written consent of the author.

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  HIDDEN SINS REVEALED

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  TWENTY-ONE

  TWENTY-TWO

  TWENTY-THREE

  TWENTY-FOUR

  TWENTY-FIVE

  TWENTY-SIX

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  TWENTY-NINE

  ONE DEAD POLITICIAN

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  TWENTY-ONE

  TWENTY-TWO

  TWENTY-THREE

  TWENTY-FOUR

  TWENTY-FIVE

  TWENTY-SIX

  TWENTY-SEVEN

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  OTHER FICTION TITLES BY TANYA R. TAYLOR

  Hidden Sins Revealed

  Nick Myers Series - Book One

  Tanya R. Taylor

  ONE

  The black Mercedes Benz spun onto the semi-circled driveway, slowing to a complete halt in front of the grand, three-story edifice on 114 Creshan Drive.

  In full executive garb, Victor Emerson exited the vehicle with briefcase in one hand and keys dangling in the other.

  “Home at last!” He sighed, unlocking the mahogany-stained doubled-doors of the house which were snuggled on both sides by darkly tinted tempered glass. He yearned for the smooth texture and alluring aroma of a hot cup of chamomile tea to tantalize his rigid nerves.

  Stepping inside the plushy work of architecture, eager to satiate his most pressing desire, he was unexpectedly greeted by a foul and peculiar odor that saturated the air. “What in hell is that?” He muttered. Resting his briefcase and keys on the stand near the front door, he quickly set out to inspect the kitchen. It seemed to be the most logical starting point.

  The kitchen door swung behind him as he walked inside. His eyes instantly went to work, cautiously scanning the large open space. Upon initial inspection, nothing appeared to be out of place. The trash bin was empty, the stove sparkling clean, but then, parked on the floor in the eastern corner of the room between a lower cabinet and the stove lay a suspicious object, concealed in what seemed to be some extra large plastic bags tied together in a knot.

  Strange, Victor thought as he retrieved the sharpest knife from the cutlery drawer and gripped it tightly. He slowly approached the unknown object, then knelt down beside it. He recoiled, nose wrinkling at the stench even more offensive now. Perplexing thoughts bombarded his mind as he mustered up the courage to expose the package's mysterious contents.

  Sighing deeply, heart racing, his hand shivered as he carefully tore through the bags.

  “Huhhh!” He gasped seconds later, palms pressed backwards onto the floor preventing him from falling.

  “My God... It can't be!” He cried, his eyes temporarily pasted to the gruesome sight. He turned away and hurried into the living room and stood there for a few moments staring at a small, framed photograph that sat on the walnut Alma-Tadema Steinway. Then forcing his legs to move, he raced back to the kitchen and dared another look. No. He was not mistaken. His mind had not deceived him.

  * * * *

  Uniformed police officers converged on the scene within minutes of the discovery. Two of them hurried to the front door that opened just before they had a chance to knock.

  “Are you Victor Emerson?” Matt Davies asked in a husky voice. He was a tall, lanky patrol officer in his mid-twenties with almond skin and ruffled side burns.

  “Yeah, I made the call. It’s in there,” Victor weakly pointed toward his kitchen.

  The officers walked past him, instantly awestruck by the artistry of the high cypress ceiling. Three milk-white satin sofas streaked with a silver, zig-zag design sat handsomely upon a forest-green marble floor that stretched far away beyond the living room.

  Matt Davies and his patrol partner, Burt Andrews, proceeded into the kitchen. They only exited a short while later, gasping for air.

  “Did you touch anything, sir?” Davies asked Victor, still tasting the fetid odor in his throat.

  “Not the body, if that’s what you mean!” Victor replied. “I cut through the bags to see what was sprawled across my kitchen floor, and that’s all I did.”

  Spotting two detectives who had just arrived on the scene, Davies excused himself and dashed outside to meet them. Andrews remained inside with Victor.

  “You won’t believe what I saw in there, detectives,” Davies said, almost choking. “I never seen anything like it in my whole life.”

  “You mustn’t have been around that long,” Lou Riley replied, unmoved. “How old are you anyway?”

  “Twenty-five, sir.”

  “Yeah. Figures,” Lou returned coolly.

  Lou Riley was a short, middle-aged Italian with bushy brown eyebrows and a pointed, often shiny nose.

  “We’ll handle it from here,” Nick Myers said. “Just show us what you found.” He looked up at the striking, white monstrosity in front of him. “Some house, huh?”

  “Ahh… the rich get richer,” Lou sighed.

  They followed Davies inside. The odor seeping from the house was dreadfully familiar to the detectives. As they proceeded toward the kitchen, Nick glanced at Victor Emerson who was sitting quietly in the living room noticeably deep in thought.

  In the kitchen, Nick slipped on a pair of latex gloves and crouched down beside the semi-concealed package. “A woman, probably in her mid-sixties; visible signs of decomposition, also of mutilation,” he noted.

  Lou looked on, taking notes. “No visible sign of blood anywhere,” he said. “The crime doesn’t appear to have happened here.” He slid a finger across the marble counter-top. “This place is absolutely spotless. Man, what a house!”

  His remark did not gel at that moment considering the circumstance, but he felt like saying it.

  “Her left arm’s missing,” Nick noted, retrieving a small cutter from his coat pocket. Meticulously avoiding the knot at the end in hopes of preserving possible latent evidence, he continued along the line where Victor Emerson had left off, soon unveiling the entire corpse. Soon after, the officers left the kitchen and stood just outside the door.

  “That’s the guy who found her?” Nick asked Davies.

  “Yes, sir. His name’s Victor Emerson.”

  “See that a crew outside control the area and gather up any witnesses you can around the neighborhood.”

  “Sure thing, sir,” Davie
s replied eagerly.

  Victor sat in the massive space with the front door widely ajar, fingers clenched so tightly together atop his lap that his hands had turned beet red. His eyes were fixated on a photograph just ahead; his mind more than a million miles away.

  “Mr. Emerson…” A voice crept up behind him. “I'm Detective Nick Myers and this is my partner, Detective Lou Riley. We need to ask you a few questions concerning your discovery.”

  Nick Myers was wearing a grey, three-piece outfit and shiny alligator shoes. His black, slicked back hair gave him somewhat of a mobster boss look, and hazel eyes barely softened his rugged features.

  “Mr. Emerson...” he repeated, now facing him.

  Victor looked up wearily. “Sorry. I didn't see you.” Gazing at the detective through somber, glassy eyes, he subconsciously released the pressure from his hands.

  “That’s all right. You own this house, sir?” Nick asked.

  “Yes, I do.”

  “You wanna tell me what happened here?” Nick retrieved a small notepad from his coat pocket.

  Just then, the forensics crew arrived on the scene and immediately embarked upon the task of dusting for prints, taking snapshots of the remains and entire crime scene area - both inside and out, measuring and sketching, and meticulously searching for latent evidence.

  Victor demanded self-composure. He slid his fingers through his thinning brown hair and carefully pondered the situation. “I just got back from an executives’ conference in Vegas. I’m the VP of a Trust company downtown – AR Trust & Holdings. My kids were staying with my sister, Betty and her husband in Benedict Canyon while I was away; they usually do whenever I have to travel on business.”

  Nick listened intently.

  “Well…” Victor gulped, “…from the moment I entered the house, I was instantly taken aback by a horrible smell. I decided to check and see where it was coming from. That’s when I went into the kitchen, thinking it might have been mounted trash we forgot to dump before leaving or something of that nature. And that’s when I found her.”

  Two EMTs wheeled a stretcher into the kitchen. Victor looked on nervously as Lou excused himself and accompanied them.

  “Was there any sign of a break-in when you arrived home?” Nick asked.

  Victor cleared his throat. “No. Everything appeared to be in place – just the way we left it.”

  Nick walked over to the front door and examined the lock, hinges, molding and the door itself. There were no visible signs of a break-in, but that area had not been properly inspected as yet, so he knew that evidence could lie in what remained hidden.

  “So, you said everything appeared to be in order when you arrived home, but did you secure all the doors and windows before you left?” Nick asked.

  “Yes. The kids and I always do before leaving the house,” Victor asserted.

  “Is it impossible that one door perhaps, maybe the back door or sliding door, or even a window might have been left unsecured?”

  “That's not possible, detective.”

  “Do you have a housekeeper, Mr. Emerson?” Nick glanced outside at the wealthy, suburban neighborhood. “I assume most folks around here do.”

  “Yes, we have a housekeeper.”

  “Her name, please?”

  “Netta Perez,” Victor answered.

  “Was she here when you arrived today?”

  “No. Her mother died a week ago. The family had made arrangements for the funeral to be held in New York City where she’s from, so I suggested to Netta that she take a few days off right then, which she did,” Victor explained.

  “How many days?”

  “Five days,” he sighed heavily.

  “So she should be back in California now?” Nick probed.

  “I’m sure she is.”

  Victor gave the detective his housekeeper’s contact information.

  “Mr. Emerson, you said you attended a conference in Vegas. Which day did you leave to go there?”

  “Monday of this week.”

  “What time did you and the kids leave home that day?”

  “Around eleven-thirty maybe. I can't say for sure. But I know it must've been around that time because I had to drop the kids off to my sister's house, then drive to the airport to check in an hour prior to departure which was scheduled for two o'clock. I remember arriving at the airport sometime between twelve-thirty and one, checked in, sat in the lobby and awaited the boarding call. I also remember checking my watch after boarding the plane and we were leaving right on schedule.”

  “What time did you arrive home today?” Nick asked.

  Victor studied his watch for a moment. “I was here for about forty-five minutes now, so probably one-fifteen - around there.”

  Nick’s expression altered. “Mr. Emerson, can you identify the remains you found on your kitchen floor?”

  Victor cleared his throat again, his head lowered and the inner pressure he felt was clearly visible by the bulging veins that slightly protruded his forehead.

  “Her name is Freda Jennings. She’s my aunt: My late mother’s sister. That’s her photograph right there on the piano. She had mailed it to me about a year ago, but the last time I saw her in person must have been at least thirty-five years ago.”

  “Thirty-five years, huh?” Nick got a closer look at the photograph.

  “There’s a little note at the back. Slip it out of the frame,” Victor said, almost in a whisper.

  Nick slid the picture out from behind the glass and carefully read the note on the reverse side:

  'Love you always. I have never forgotten you. - Aunt Freda'

  “Did Miss Jennings keep in touch over the years, in spite of her absence?” Nick continued, slipping the photo back into place.

  “Didn’t hear a word from her all those years. We had no idea where she was or if she was still alive. But I sure as heck was surprised when I got that picture,” Victor replied.

  Suddenly, a nearly hysterical fourteen-year-old rushed through the open door and flew into her father’s arms. “Dad, are you alright?!” She cried. “Why are all these cops here?”

  “Everything’s fine, honey,” Victor gently stroked his daughter’s long, blonde hair.

  “Dammit! Get her outta here!” A senior officer shouted to the rookie cop who was stationed at the front door. She had dashed right past him.

  “No. That’s all right. I’ll handle this,” Nick interjected. Looking outside, he noticed a boy and an older man being restrained by police.

  “Let them through,” he commanded, prompting the two strangers to approach, but to not touch anything, which was fairly odd conduct for a detective working a murder scene - even odder conduct for a detective of his caliber.

  “These your kids, Mr. Emerson?” He asked.

  “Yes. Tim and Lisa. The gentleman there is my brother-in-law, Joe Scholl.”

  “Dad, what's going on here!” Tim demanded frantically.

  “Yeah, Victor, what on earth's goin' on here?” Joe reiterated in his Southern accent.

  “I'd like to ask you all a few questions,” Nick said as Tim quietly started toward the kitchen where he noticed most of the commotion going on.

  “Hey, kid, don't go in there!” the rookie cop shouted.

  “What is it, Dad?” Tim halted, looking at his father, suddenly feeling a cold chill travel up his spine.

  “It's...” Victor started.

  Suddenly, Lou Riley appeared in the doorway of the kitchen. “Nick, you'd better have a look at this,” he said. “You're not gonna believe it.”

  Nick headed into the kitchen as a uniformed officer corralled the others and kept them confined to the living room.

  As EMTs mounted Freda Jennings onto the stretcher, Nick spotted something frighteningly sadistic.

  A message pasted to the floor in presumably red spray paint, read: 'See you in hell!'

  * * * *

  Frank Keller was sitting near the bedroom window in his wheelchair, staring listlessly outsi
de. The glass of ice cold milk Annie had left on the nightstand was now getting warm.

  He wheeled himself closer to the window and opened it slightly. He wanted to hear the cars speed by, their horns honk, and the spoiled kids scream obscenities at each other from across the street. It was his time to think, to ponder, to dwell on a past which haunted him with unrelenting fervor – an undeniably, unforgettable past.

  TWO

  Jerked out of a reverie, Victor sat up in bed and listened carefully. The doorbell sounded again. He quickly tossed on a T-shirt and started down the stairway.

  “Bee, is that you?” He called out instinctively.

  “Course, it’s me. Open up!” A voice cried out from below.

  “Everything’s all right, Bee,” he said, opening the door for her. “Where are the kids?”

  “They’re with Joe. What the hell happened here?” She asked.

  Betty Scholl was Victor’s only sibling; ten years his elder and spunkier than any fifty-one year old, bright-eyed brunette he had ever seen.

  “Where the hell were you, Bee? Joe was trying to reach you for hours!”

  “I had an appointment with my stylist. Can’t you tell? I mentioned it to Joe two days ago. You’d think he would’ve remembered.”

  Victor led the way to the bar. “Your favorite?” He asked dryly.

  “Sure. Why not? Now would you please tell me what happened here?” Betty insisted, mounting the stool as best she could with the five-inch high-heeled leather boots. “Did they really find Freda in your kitchen!” She asked, wide-eyed.

  “I found Freda, Bee. I found her. And, yeah... in the kitchen stuffed in some trash bags. Just my luck, eh? The cleaners just left here a while ago. The stench was nauseating.”

  He poured her a shot of Brandy.

  “Well, I’m not setting foot in there no more.” She glanced at the kitchen before devouring the Brandy in one gulp. “Who the hell would wanna kill her anyway, and worse ... drag her into this house?”

  “I haven’t a clue.”

  “You didn’t kill her; did ya?” She glared at him.

  “Bee! How could you ask me such a thing?” Victor was clearly hurt.

  “Oh, come on. I was just kidding. You couldn’t hurt a fly. In fact, I believe you’re the only person in this world who really never, ever hurt a fly...”