Booked for Murder
by
C. M. Sutter
Copyright © 2020
All Rights Reserved
AUTHOR’S NOTE
This book is a work of fiction by C. M. Sutter. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used solely for entertainment. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the internet or any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
C. M. Sutter is a crime fiction writer who resides in Florida, although she is originally from California.
She is a member of over fifty writing groups and book clubs. In addition to writing, she enjoys spending time with her family and dog, and you’ll often find her writing in airports and on planes as she flies from state to state on family visits.
She is an art enthusiast and loves to create gourd birdhouses, pebble art, and handmade soaps. Gardening, bicycling, fishing, and traveling are a few of her favorite pastimes.
C. M. Sutter
http://cmsutter.com/
Contact C. M. Sutter
Sign up for C. M. Sutter’s newsletter
Booked for Murder: A Detective Jesse McCord Police Thriller, Book 5
The Chicago homicide unit arrives at the scene of a drive-by shooting, but when Detective Jesse McCord realizes the victim is the mother of one of his closest friends, the case becomes more than personal. Charlotte Sanders doesn’t have enemies, but neither do the other victims whose lives are taken that week, and the number of murders is escalating quickly.
Are random murders in the Windy City on the rise, or are these gruesome acts being committed by one perpetrator with an agenda for taking out specific people?
With no connection between the victims, the police department is at a loss on finding the killer, and when one face keeps popping up in the investigation, Jesse needs to find out why. He wonders if he or someone on his team is about to be targeted next—and time isn’t on their side.
See all of C. M. Sutter’s books at:
http://cmsutter.com/available-books/
Find C. M. Sutter on Facebook at:
https://www.facebook.com/cmsutterauthor/
Don’t want to miss C. M. Sutter’s next release? Sign up for the VIP e-mail list at:
http://cmsutter.com/newsletter/
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 1
After standing in front of the restaurant for the last ten minutes, she finally said good night to her friends, walked to the parking lot, and climbed into her vehicle.
It’s about time.
The humiliation Vic had felt earlier that week was more than any person should have to endure, and it was time to right the wrong—to level the playing field. The world would be rid of people who had received good fortune one time too many. They never had to struggle to get by and each one would pay the piper dearly with their life.
The handgun sat on the passenger seat, loaded and ready to fire. The timing had to be perfect, and missed shots weren’t acceptable. She would die that night—that was a fact.
The ivory-colored Maxima was easy to spot, even as Vic stayed several car lengths behind. When the light at the next intersection changed and the cars slowed, it would be time. The passenger window would come down, and the shots would be fired. At such a close range—seven feet at best—hitting the intended target would be a cinch. The woman would be as dead as a doornail, and the planning stage for the rest of the murders would begin. Soon, all five people would be a distant memory and quickly forgotten. None of them were worth remembering, anyway.
A block up the street, the light changed from yellow to red, and by the time they reached it, it would change back to green. The vehicles would have already slowed to a crawl, then they’d speed up again. A few seconds at the Maxima’s side was all that was needed.
This could be it. I’ll get alongside her, lower the window, and shoot.
With a glance in the rearview mirror, Vic saw that the cars in the distance had stopped at the red light a block back—the timing was perfect, and the opportunity couldn’t have been better. Slowing for the light, the woman in the Maxima clearly had no idea her life would end in thirty seconds. Vic’s car pulled alongside her, the passenger window went down, and the shots rang out. Two bullets pierced the glass inward and outward, the woman was hit, and the car lurched forward.
Continuing on, Vic looked through the passenger-side door mirror and saw the outcome. The woman had definitely been struck, and the Maxima jumped the curb, nearly hitting the pedestrians on the sidewalk.
Chapter 2
That night was Steve’s turn to host the poker party. The five of us had been best friends for damn near twenty years, ever since we’d attended college together. But now, we all had busy lives, and although it was painfully obvious that we didn’t get together as often as we wanted, we took turns hosting our poker night every few months. In March, it would be at my house, and if our cold Chicago winters blew in some bad weather, everyone would stay put until the next day. It had been like that for years, with no end in sight.
“Damn it, McCord, are you on a lucky streak or something?” Joe Zimdars, the crime fiction author in our group—and the one who drove the farthest, from Pleasant Prairie, Wisconsin—grumbled as he checked the time. “I’m heading out at midnight. That gives me another few hands to recoup my money.”
We laughed at his optimism. Joe was the worst poker player I’d ever known. He never came out ahead, but sport that he was, he played with everything he had until his pockets were empty.
I glanced at the oversized clock on the wall at Joe’s back. It was after eleven thirty.
Steve elbowed Pete, who lived in Naperville. “Jesse must have a hot date. He’s watching the clock too. What’s wrong, pal? Isn’t our company as exciting as Hanna’s?”
They laughed at my expense, but I had a half-hour drive home, and so did Pete. I was pretty sure he’d be r
eady to leave around midnight too. We were all in our late thirties, and our college drinking days and staying up until all hours of the morning were a thing of the past. We were older and usually more responsible, even though admitting it was painful.
Steve won the next hand with a full house—kings and nines—and Joe cursed all of us.
Moments later, my cell vibrated in my pocket. Lifting my hip, I pulled it out, and the ribbing began. The guys assumed Hanna was checking up on me.
“Shit, this can’t be good.”
“What’s wrong, Jesse?” Joe’s tone changed.
“It’s my commander. Give me a minute, guys.” I excused myself and stepped into the living room to take the call. “Hey, Boss, what’s up?”
“Sorry to wake you, Jesse, but 911 just got word of a homicide in our district. I’m going to need you there.”
“Not a problem, and I wasn’t asleep. I’m in Lincoln Park at Steve’s condo, but I was about to leave, anyway. It’s going to take a half hour. Domestic or otherwise?”
Lutz huffed. “I don’t know all the details yet, but it involves a car accident.”
I frowned. “A car accident and a homicide?”
“According to the eyewitnesses who rushed to the car, the side windows were blown out, and the driver looked like she had a bullet hole in her left temple. It was a bystander who called 911. A couple of patrol units just arrived to keep people back and to preserve the scene. Head to East Forty-Seventh and Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. Drive. I was told the car jumped the curb, damn near hit pedestrians on the sidewalk, and came to a stop facing south. I’ve already called Don, and I’m on my way.”
“Okay, I should be there before twelve thirty.” I clicked off the call, offered my apologies for winning most of the hands, and bolted out the door.
Even though it was relatively late, it was Saturday, and Chicago didn’t shut down until three a.m. or later on Friday and Saturday nights. Traffic was still an issue, and a slippery dusting of snow slowed the drive even more. I passed dozens of bars as I headed south, and the nightlife was still in full swing. Smokers lined the sidewalks just outside the doors, and the chilly Chicago night didn’t seem to matter. I wondered if the shooting could have stemmed from a bar altercation that spilled out onto the street as the woman pulled away in her car.
Nah, the shooter would have been identified right away. Guess I’ll know more when I get there.
After hitting every red light and dealing with slippery road conditions, I finally arrived on scene at 12:40. Lutz’s personal vehicle, two patrol cars, Don, and what looked to be Mike Nordgren’s car were already at the scene and parked in the far-right lane. I squeezed between the orange cones that blocked off the street and parked at the rear of the medical examiner’s van. A crowd of fifty or more people had gathered, and they stood behind the police tape that wrapped a large section of the corner. The car had come to rest on the median and was dangerously close to the sidewalk. Portable barriers had been erected several feet from the front, the passenger side, and the rear of the car to keep onlookers at bay.
Lutz was standing on the sidewalk with two patrol officers and several bystanders. Before heading that way, I made a stop at the car. The driver’s-side door stood open, and Don had his head inside, examining the deceased. Mike, on the passenger side, took pictures.
Approaching Don, I asked what he’d learned so far.
After backing out, he looked over his right shoulder, gave me a nod, and snapped the gloves off his hands. He turned them inside out and pocketed them. “Jesse. Older female, around sixty. I believe Lutz has her ID. It appears that two bullets must have been discharged, but that’s up to the crime lab to determine.” He tipped his head toward the victim. “One bullet is likely lodged in her skull since I can’t feel an exit wound or see a hole in the car’s upholstery.”
“And the second?”
Mike took over. “The passenger window is blown out too. That’s telling me the second bullet missed the victim and could be anywhere, even a block away. It could be in the side of a building or in a tree for all we know. We haven’t discovered where the actual attack took place, but the bullet could have come from a passing car. The shooter might have lowered their passenger window and shot through the victim’s driver’s-side window several times before speeding away.”
I rubbed my chin as I thought. The scene was so unusual, and in my career, I’d never investigated a drive-by shooting that involved an older woman. It didn’t make sense. “So who is she?”
Lutz must have heard me and crossed the median to join us. “Her purse was lying in the passenger-side footwell, and I took the liberty of searching through it. Her name is Charlotte Sanders, age sixty-one, and she lives about six blocks from here on South Forestville Avenue.”
Lutz’s words made my head spin. It couldn’t be true.
“I need to see her driver’s license right away.”
The commander pointed at his car. “Her purse is locked in my car for the time being. Why? What’s wrong?”
“Steve’s mom’s name is Charlotte. I don’t know her that well, but the age is right.” I glanced at the car and knew the woman’s face would be unrecognizable. “I need to see her driver’s license photo and then search her purse or phone to see if Steve’s contact information comes up anywhere.”
“Shit!” Lutz fished the keys out of his pocket and headed to his car with me on his heels.
“I’m telling you, Boss, if this is actually Steve’s mom, it’s going to be the second worst day of his life.”
Lutz stopped in his tracks and looked back at me. “What was the first?”
“When his dad died of cancer two years ago.”
Chapter 3
My commander clicked the key fob, and his car lights flashed twice. He pointed with his chin. “The purse is in the trunk.” He reached in and grabbed the bag, then we took our seats in the car.
I pulled my phone from my pocket and used the flashlight app to see the driver’s license and look through her phone. With her wallet unsnapped, I flipped it open and removed the license from its sleeve. Staring at the picture, I knew it was her. Charlotte Sanders, the mother of one of my dearest friends, was dead.
I shook my head in disbelief. “It’s her. Why on earth would anybody shoot Charlotte?”
Lutz shrugged. “It could have been a random drive-by, an outraged motorist that she might have inadvertently cut off, or her car could have been mistaken for one that belonged to somebody else.”
“I’m not buying it. A direct side-to-side shot? There’s no way the shooter didn’t see her face clearly when they took aim. That person shot her deliberately.”
Lutz heaved a deep sigh. “Go through everything to make sure there’s no doubt. I want irrefutable proof that Steve’s name and number are somewhere in that purse. Come get me when you have that, and we’ll take it from there.”
Lutz exited his car and left me alone to go through Charlotte’s handbag. I knew Steve would be hit hard with the news since he and his mom were extremely close. I remembered one story in particular he always told with pleasure. Our entire group knew the one where Charlotte showed up at the door of his newly purchased condo with gallons of paint in hand and insisted they change the wall colors from lemon yellow to a pale gray—more manly, she’d said—and it had to be done at that moment. That story had always made him laugh.
She was generous to a fault, especially after her husband, Milton, passed away. Steve—their only child—was fawned over his entire life, and since his father’s death, he and Charlotte had grown even closer.
I didn’t know how to give him the news, and I thought hard about that as I searched her purse. The cell phone lay at the bottom, and I pulled it out. Even though it was locked, I didn’t need to look any further. The screen saver was a picture of Charlotte and Steve.
I hate to give you the news, buddy, but better me than a stranger.
I climbed out of Lutz’s car, returned the purse to the trunk,
and locked the doors. With Charlotte’s phone in hand, I met up with Bob, who stood at Mike’s side.
“Boss?” I held up Charlotte’s phone.
Lutz came toward me. “What’s the word?”
I showed him the screen saver. “That’s Charlotte and Steve, and it looks pretty recent.”
Bob groaned. “How do you want to handle this, Jesse? We can’t have him show up here and go off the deep end.” Lutz swirled his finger above his head. “This entire block is off limits to the public. It’s all we have as a crime scene, and we have to preserve it until Forensics completes their measurements and the area has been gone through by officers. I’m hoping we can find that stray bullet too.”
I knew the officers would be searching through the night but would likely have better luck in the daylight hours. The entire block would be closed to the public for a good twelve hours. We needed to find eyewitnesses who actually saw the car begin to veer toward the curb or who heard a gunshot or watched a vehicle speed away.
I shrugged. “Charlotte is dead, and there’s nothing we can do to change that. I’ll help out with the bystander interviews and then call Steve in the morning.” I looked at what I could see of Charlotte’s body slumped toward the passenger seat, her head covered in blood. “There’s no way in hell he needs to see his mom like that.”
I handed Lutz his car keys then made my way toward the group of officers speaking with people behind the yellow tape.
Tillson was among the patrol units. “You doing interviews or searching the area?”
“Doing interviews, but it seems like everyone has a different version of events, and they’re sticking to it.”
Raking my hair, I frowned at the group of onlookers. “Being a Saturday night doesn’t help either. I’m sure a good portion of those bystanders are half in the bag.” I jerked my chin toward the corner bar and noticed that more people had spilled out onto the sidewalk to watch the action. “We’ve got our work cut out for us. Anybody’s statement sound more realistic than another?”