Cheryl Bradshaw - Sinnerman

SINNERMAN

Cheryl Bradshaw

Author praise for Black Diamond Death:

*****

The writing and editing are excellent, the characters are interesting, and the plot kept me hooked. The balance between action and detecting worked perfectly. The main character was a masterpiece. —Edward G. Talbot, Author of New World Orders The tone reminded me of Robert B. Parker’s novels, so if you’re missing the likes of Spenser and Sunny Randall, I’d say that Cheryl Bradshaw looks to be a worthy successor. Highly recommended! —Chris Stout, Author of Days of Reckoning While I’ve found most mystery/thrillers to be rehashes of the same old plot line, this novel was refreshingly new/original. It is a new twist on the PI murder-mystery with a few nice surprises along the way. —Jack Murphy, Author of PROMIS: Vietnam This book had me guessing the whole time. Reads like a bestseller.—Julia Crane, Author of Coexist

*****

Dedication

This book is dedicated to anyone who’s ever had a dream.

We have but one life, and one opportunity to live it.

Make it last, make it count, and make it the best it can be.

Live your dreams, I know I am.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

First and foremost, to Justin: Shakespeare’s Sonnet 116.

To Kylie, Taylor, and Macey for adding meaning to my life.

Reese Dante, your book covers rock! Thanks for making me look so good.

Jessica Meigs, editor extraordinaire—I appreciate your keen eye!

Many thanks to Tom Adair for answering all my forensic questions and for your fantastic forensics blog for fiction writers: forensics4fiction.wordpress.com

To my sister Michelle Brown for her excellence in photography, and to my family.

To the best family of in-laws a girl could ever hope for—I’m so lucky to have you all in my life.

THS peeps, I appreciate the overwhelming support you’ve given me in the beginning of this great journey; makes me proud to remember who I am and where I came from, and that I’m still a warrior at heart.

To Angie, thank you for playing Skillet’s One Day Too Late for me and for your support—I love ya!

To my friends near and far and especially: Eric, Tiffany, Becky, LeighAnn, Gina, Cori, Tanya, Rani—what a blessing it is to have a circle of friends this wonderful in my life.

Band of Horses—your music is an inspiration.

And last but not least, to Abraham Lincoln for teaching me to see the person and not the color and for your perseverance and spirit that lives on through each American alive in this great country today. Rest in peace, Mr. President.

*****

What kills a skunk is the publicity it gives itself.

-ABRAHAM LINCOLN

CHAPTER 1

Sam Reids reclined back into the seat of his black 1970 Oldsmobile Cutlass Supreme and examined the women that shuffled in and out of the supermarket like predictable herds of cattle. It had been three long years since he felt the steady churn of butterflies in his stomach, but the anticipation of the nights soon-to-be events made it all worthwhile. The wait hadn’t been easy, and whenever he felt he couldn’t control his urges any longer, he walked down the steep series of steps that led to the basement and gazed at the trinkets he’d collected. They were all spaced two inches apart in single-file formation on a shelf. In total, there were fifteen glass bottles. Each container had a white label about the size of a Post-It note affixed to the front with the date and a name written in thick black marker.

Over the past few years Sam visited them often and took special care to dust and polish their exteriors, but he never opened them once they’d been sealed. He didn’t want to take a chance that one of his precious mementos could get spoiled. Sometimes he took one to his room and deposited it on the stand next to him while he slept. When he woke during the night to the illuminated glow that shone through the glass from the lamp above, he felt a sensation of peace, like a child that watched the constant spin of the mobile over the crib. It wasn’t the same thrill he’d experienced when he secured the object within the bottle, but it helped him pass the time.

Through his binoculars, Sam observed two women walk out of the store together; one carried a brown paper sack in her hand and the other, a gallon of milk. The one with the sack showed promise. Her long espresso-colored hair flickered in the wind. It reminded him of flames from a forest fire fighting its way across acres of trees. He waited for her to say goodbye to her friend and then placed his binoculars on the seat next to him. His palms expelled an oily substance that spread until they were both drenched with sweat. The time had come.

Sam grabbed an unused diaper from the passenger seat and pushed his car door open. At the same time, the woman unlocked her passenger side door and bent down and placed the sack of groceries on the seat of her car. She was too preoccupied to hear him approach.

“Excuse me,” he said.

The woman retracted out of the car and turned and faced him.

“Do I know you?” she said.

“I’m sorry to bother you,” he said with a crooked smile, “but do you know how to change a diaper?”

She looked at the diaper in his hand and then back at him.

“Why do you ask?”

“My sister asked me to watch my nephew for a few hours, and I can’t seem to get the darn thing on right.”

He angled the diaper in the direction of his car.

“My car’s right over there,” he said. “Do you think you could help me?”

The woman hesitated and studied the man’s car for a moment and then shrugged her shoulders.

“I really need to get home,” she said.

The man smiled, but not just any smile. It was one he’d practiced in the mirror over and over again until it conveyed what he needed it to—trust me.

“It will only take a minute,” he said.

They walked over to Sam’s car, and he was careful to remain a few paces behind her. He glanced over his left shoulder and then his right. All was still, and since the store closed in five minutes, he was certain it would remain that way. He watched the woman peek through the window of his car and relished the startled look on her face when she didn’t see a baby. With a perplexed look, she turned and faced him.

“Where’s the—”

The man reached into the front pocket of his hoodie with all the calmness of a drug addict who’d just smoked a bag of weed and pulled out a needle and inserted it into her shoulder. In an instant her body went limp and she sagged into him.

Happy anniversary, he thought to himself.

When he arrived home, Sam pulled the woman out of the trunk of his car and placed his hands in the small of her back and tossed her over his right shoulder. Her exposed thigh pressed against the flesh on his face, and he felt her body quiver. It made him feel alive again. The way she looked at him when he opened the trunk and gazed down on her reminded him of a fawn, but she didn’t move or make a sound. He was a little disappointed by this; he’d expected more of a challenge.

Sam opened the door to the basement, hauled the woman downstairs, and walked past his bottle collection. For the first time since she regained consciousness, the woman tried to scream, but it was muffled by the tape he’d secured over her mouth. He stopped for a moment and turned toward the shelves and patted the side of her leg.

“They’re beautiful, aren’t they?” he said. “Do you see that row there at the bottom? There’s nothing on it now, but in a week or two, it will be all filled up.”

The woman twisted her body and thrashed from side to side and tried to release herself from the tight grip he had on her.