Friday, October 23, 2015


Genre: Horror/Mystery

By Daniel Skye


            Thursday, November 6th, 2008.

            The Blue Parrot, Bar and Motel.

            Early morning.

            Richie Carter had to call Mac Wilson’s suicide in to his brother. This was something he could not walk away from. Walking away from Dolph Hendricks murder was one thing.

Dolph was an ex-con, a prison snitch. In fact, he was a stoolie inside and out of prison. He made his fair share of enemies over the years. And technically, Richie didn’t kill him. Zack Garton pulled the trigger. But Richie couldn’t let his brother find out. He couldn’t have his brother knowing he was working with Garton at all.

            And Dolph Hendricks wasn’t a major suspect in their investigation. Mac Wilson was. And Richie couldn’t hide the fact that he’d been to the Blue Parrot. The desk clerk had seen his face. He had asked her what room Wilson was in. He even insinuated he was with the police, which wasn’t necessarily a lie. But the clerk could still identify him when the real police showed up. No sense in running, especially when he had nothing to hide, aside from his connection with Garton.

            Anthony Carter didn’t appreciate the wakeup call. But when Richie told him the news, he was on his way before Richie could even hang up the phone.

“So, a few minutes in your company and Mac Wilson offs himself,” Anthony said as the coroner did his work in room twelve. “You really have a way with people. What’d you say to make him pull the trigger?”

“I never had a chance to ask him anything. As soon as I mentioned Nadia, Nico, and Fenton, he turned the gun on himself. But he confessed to hiring Jacob Price to try and kill me. That’s it. Any secrets about Nico, Fenton, Nadia, or anyone else who was involved, he’s taking it to his grave.”

            “What happened to your face?” Anthony inquired.

            “Occupational hazard,” Richie said. He knew Anthony would ask about the bandage. Luckily, the wound was mainly superficial. Didn’t even require stitches. A bullet from Dolph Hendricks gun had grazed his cheek. But withholding that detail from Anthony was mandatory. Richie was on to something big here and the less Anthony knew, the safer he’d be.

            “Anything I should know about?”

            “Doesn’t concern you. It’s unrelated.”

            “If you say so.”

            “Have you got anything new for me?”

            “I was going to ask you the same question.”

            “You talked to Mackenzie, right?”

            “Yeah, I talked to your friend down at the pub,” Anthony nodded. “I must applaud you. Some job you did getting her to come forward like that. But I only know what you know. We know the girl on the tape is Nadia Sanborn. We know she’s dead. We know Mac Wilson was one of the four men who had a role in her death. Any guesses as to who the other three men are?”

            “Technically, there were five men. The four men who were on camera, the ones that wore masks. And the man who was holding the camera.”

            “And how are we supposed to find out now that Wilson eighty-sixed himself?”

            “I’m working on it,” Richie said. “I’m almost positive Nico was one of the men on that tape. Not much good that does us, seeing as how he’s dead too. And Meeks definitely knew who was on that tape. I think that’s why somebody killed him. They didn’t want Meeks spilling his guts to us. And whoever it was that killed Meeks, it wasn’t Wilson. They’re still out there.”

            Anthony wrapped things up as the coroner ruled that the case was indeed a suicide. Richie asked him for a lift, told him his car was in the shop.

            “Again?” Anthony chuckled. “Junk that piece of crud already.”

            “Just take me back to my office. I have to get in touch with some sources. See what I can find out about that tape.”

            “Well don’t bother checking in with Dolph Hendricks,” Anthony said. “Somebody punched his ticket last night behind Jack’s Liquor Mart. The boys think it was drug related. They’re not too eager to look into it.”

            “Poor guy,” Richie said, feigning compassion.

“Oh one last thing I should mention. Your buddy, Dominic and his brother Nico–they’re mobbed up. It took me a while to remember the name. The Cirico’s were before my time. The father retired, stepped aside. But I assume the family still has their connections. Maybe it’s worth looking into.”

“Maybe,” Richie said, as another piece of the puzzle fell right into his lap.

* * *

            Dominic Cirico had done well for himself. He had more money than Zack Garton did, that was for sure.

The steps of the veranda led to the front entrance of Dominic’s two-story palace, which opened to a long, narrow vestibule.

Garton crossed the threshold of the vestibule and stepped into the massive foyer. He knew Dominic was alone. There was only one car–a Mercedes–parked in the driveway.

But Garton still tiptoed through the foyer, careful not to make a sound. He stopped briefly to admire the extravagant living room.

Shag carpets, suede couches, and a flat-screen television as big as a theater screen. Priceless sculptures and stunning works of art adorned the room. Garton didn’t recognize any of the paintings or the artists, but he was willing to bet Dominic didn’t have a clue, either. People like Dominic didn’t buy art because they appreciated it. They bought art to flaunt their wealth.

More impressive was the kitchen. Granite countertops and marble tiles. Not faux marble, either. Garton could tell it was the real thing.

He made himself at home in the kitchen and waited patiently, silently. He heard Dominic’s alarm clock go off at nine o’clock. He hit the snooze button once and got up around 9:15.

Shuffling into the kitchen in his robe and slippers, the first thing he saw was Garton seated at the table, 9mm Luger in hand.

“Morning, Hef,” Garton mocked him.

“Zack Garton, I presume,” Dominic said, taking a seat at the other end of the table.

“How do you know my name?”

“Who do you think put you in touch with Kirk Warwick? Who else in Dorchester has those kinds of connections?”

“I never did business with the Cirico family,” Garton stated.

“Yes, that’s true. You never even met my father. But you did business with the Westfield crew, and so have I. I understand Mr. Warwick paid you a large sum of money to do a job. Has it been done?”

“It has not.”

“Might I ask why?”

“Call it professional curiosity. I like to know who the fuck it is I’m really working for before I conduct business.”

“Is my word not enough?”

“We’re about to find out. I’m going to ask you a series to questions. Answer them honestly, you might walk away from this.”

Dominic tensed up. “Go ahead,” his voice quivering.

“Did you know a girl named Nadia Sanborn?”

“Yes,” Dominic’s head shook.

“Did you know your brother’s pal, Mac Wilson?”


“Did Mac and Nico kill Nadia Sanborn?”

“Yes,” Dominic said, ashamed to admit it.

“Did you help them?”

Dominic paused, biting his lower lip. His eyes were looking down at the floor, not at Garton. “Yes,” Dominic sighed. “I didn’t think they’d go through with it. I thought we were just going to have a little fun with Nadia and go our separate ways. But things got out of hand. There was a video camera. And Wilson knew the kind of money a film like this could bring. Genuine snuff films are a rarity. And the sickos that buy them will pay top dollar.”

“Was Fenton Meeks on that tape?”

“No. Fenton lent Nadia out for the weekend. He wasn’t involved in the act itself. But he had a copy of the tape. He actually requested one. Sick fuck.”

“Look who’s talking.”

            “I have to live with what I did every day. Fenton doesn’t.”

            “Did you kill Fenton Meeks?”

            “No. It wasn’t even my idea. Todd Reynolds did the job. He runs with the Westfield crew. But he was only following orders. I paid him to do it. But it was Warwick’s idea.”

            “What’s the connection with Warwick? How did he know Wilson and your brother, Nico?”

            “They all met through Meeks. They shared common interests, mainly abusing women.”

            “Satan appears in many unassuming forms. That message was left in Meeks’ office.”

            “Warwick’s touch, not mine. He has a way with words. He asked me to pass it along to Todd when he did the job. He wanted to put a scare into the police, into that private detective that’s been trying to link that damn tape to my brother.”

            “Speaking of Richie Carter, you know who hired Dolph Hendricks to try and kill us?”

            “I hired Dolph to do what Mac Wilson failed to do and kill Richie Carter. I can’t be responsible for you or anyone else who gets in the way.”

            “Fair enough. Now tell me who else was on that tape.”

            “You already know the answer to that.”


            “Give the man a prize.”

            “That doesn’t explain who was holding the camera.”

            “Now that, I can’t tell you.”

            “I’m afraid there’s only one alternative,” Garton said, waving his gun.

            Dominic looked away from Garton. He didn’t want to give it away, but he had an ace up his sleeve. He was packing heat too.

            Dominic slipped the pistol from his robe and fired two shots. The bullets were embedded in the wall behind Garton, missing him by mere inches.

            Before Garton could return fire, Dominic was scrambling for the front door. By the time Garton caught up to him, Dominic was peeling out of the driveway in his shiny Mercedes.

            “Son of a bitch,” Garton muttered. “I better get to Warwick before he does.”

To Be Continued

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