No Remorse Read online

  No Remorse

  Zena Oliver

  Copyright © 2018 Zena Oliver

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be used or reproduced in any manner without the written consent of the publisher/author, except in brief quotations embedded in reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, and incidents in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to persons, living or not, is purely coincidental.

  This book contains adult content and language. It is written for the mature reading audience (18+), and isn’t suitable or intended for younger readers or readers who are uncomfortable reading about crime content.

  Published by Zena Oliver

  Cover Art: Kellie Dennis

  Book Cover by Design

  Editor: Kim Huther

  Wordsmith Proofreading

  Dedication

  For my loving family who’ve encouraged me to step out of my romance comfort zone and write something different, thank you!

  I hope you all enjoy this story.

  Synopsis

  Playing with fire can get you burned … or killed.

  Chase Effridge, the handsome young playboy/college professor, is dead. A devoted and faithful husband he was not. Professor Effridge led a secret life, where mistresses and enemies were no strangers to him. When his secrets began to surface, his seemingly perfect life took a turn for the worse. One mistress with a baby, and another whose boyfriend found out about their affair, were the equivalent of adding fuel to the fire.

  Effridge’s estranged wife, Carlotta Dupree, tops the suspect list, but swears she’s innocent. Her cold demeanor and ill-wishes toward her husband do nothing to help her story. She claims to have an alibi, but can it be verified?

  The list of suspects keeps growing as the interrogation process proceeds. Each conversation does little to unravel the complexity of Chase’s life, and provides little clarity as to who can be eliminated and who can’t. Instead, the discussions tend to reveal a new person of interest, and shroud those already on the list with more suspicion. Everyone seems to have a motive.

  Will this crime ever be solved?

  Chapter 1

  “Oliver, rope this off and keep everyone out of here! The coroner’s on his way, and no one, I mean no one, comes near this room.” The sergeant barked. “And for fuck’s sake; get it together, kid. Don’t you dare puke in here! I don’t want any evidence ruined. Got it?”

  I had gagged a couple of times already. The smell in the apartment was horrendous, and it repulsed me when it wafted past my overly-sensitive nose. The victim’s blood had oozed its way through the area rug he was lying on and across the light oak hardwood floor to the carpet in the living room before it began to turn into a thickened blood-gel. It reeked of an old, coppery, death stench to me. I nearly lost my breakfast when I first saw that poor guy and got a whiff of the pungent aroma. I had no idea why no one else seemed affected by it.

  I knew one thing -- he really pissed someone off. And as much as seeing him kept my stomach twisted in knots, I couldn’t stop staring at him. This guy wasn’t known as a drug dealer or a street thug. He was a college professor, and not much older than me.

  I was one year on the job as a Detective. It had only been one short year since I’d graduated from the Academy. Up to this day, everything I’d been doing had been easy and routine. It was pretty repetitious. My mornings were started with a cup of black coffee and an egg-white sandwich, which I consumed during my drive to the station. Then my partner and I would leave the station to make the rounds, driving through a normally quiet neighborhood. If we had a couple of guys out on vacation, I got a chance to ride by myself. It had been the same thing day after day after day. There were a few calls for domestic stuff but nothing too serious, or of this magnitude.

  But on this day, an hour into our drive, just as we’d passed the elementary school where the children were running and playing in the crisp air on the playground equipment, the announcement came across the radio to everyone in the area about a possible missing person. The guy’s co-workers were concerned because he hadn’t shown up and wasn’t answering his cell phone. As I listened, my heart began to thunder against my ribs at the excitement of being part of a real crime. Finally.

  At Sarge’s orders, Jones and I drove up to the last known residence of the missing guy to meet up with him and the others who had already arrived.

  Sarge said, when he pulled up a neighbor complained about a smell they believed was coming from apartment seven. Lucky number seven. We were told the door wasn’t locked, but it was closed. After knocking several times, they tried the door and were able to get in.

  The building wasn’t a typical apartment complex. It looked like a huge brownstone or row home that had been converted into a multiple-dwelling unit. As we parked, we saw a small number of people gathered on the sidewalk outside, as if they knew what secret we’d find inside. Walking into the eerily quiet apartment building and slowly making our way up the stairs to the second floor was nerve-wracking. I didn’t know what to expect. But it didn’t take long before we knew what we were facing.

  The sickening faint smell of death emanated into the halls when we got within yards of the apartment door with the brass number seven on it. We walked into the front room and, before I made my way over to Sarge and Detective Johnson, I saw a middle-aged, well-dressed man in a black two-piece suit lying face up on the dining room floor, not far from the living room. We took a few steps closer and noticed a bullet hole in his forehead. I saw a single small wiggly maggot in the congealed blood on his face. My gag reflex kicked in and I was swallowing hard, forcing the bile that kept rising in my throat to stay down.

  The bullet looked like it probably had gone all the way through because of the amount of blood that pooled in his hair at the back of his head, and there were fragments of skull and brain matter underneath him. He also had so many stab wounds and cuts through his dress shirt he looked like a hunk of Swiss cheese. His white dress shirt had turned a dark crimson, port wine color across his chest after being soaked by his own blood.

  “Oliver!” Sarge bellowed. “Are you listening?”

  “Yeah.” I swallowed hard again. “Got it, Sarge.” I made my way to the door and began stretching the yellow caution tape across it, and then taped off a large portion of the living room. I was relieved to have been given the job of taping off the hallway. I was even more relieved that the coroner was on his way, and that he and his team would be the ones picking up the tiny pieces of skull and brain fragments that were blown off, collecting them as evidence for part of the investigation.

  My partner taped off a section of the hall that would have only been used by those who lived in this blood-bathed unit. He quickly went back into the apartment when Sarge called for him. I was just fine in the hallway, taping off the rest of the area. I was hoping Jones would get the nod to lead the case, then maybe I would be chosen to assist him. He’d worked several large cases before and was one of the lead detectives.

  I looked up to see an older gentleman looking in my direction, huffing and puffing like a steam engine as he struggled up the steps. Based on his receding hairline, pot belly, and the amount of grey intermingled with the slim streaks of brown, I’d put him in his late fifties to early sixties. I turned my attention back to my taping.

  “Hey,” he gasped as he struggled to catch his breath. “What happened in there? Someone get killed?” he asked. “That apartment was starting to smell pretty ripe.” He gasped a few more breaths into his lungs. “When that tape is used, it’s not a good sign, either. I’ve watched a lot of episodes of Law & Order.” He maneuvered his barrel-shaped body around the tape near the stairs.

  “We have a police matter; an investigation is underway right now,
sir. Do you live in the building?”

  “Yep, I’ve lived here for ten years now. Next floor up directly above them, apartment twelve.” The way he was gasping, I wasn’t sure he’d make it up another flight of stairs.

  “Were you home Friday, and over the weekend? Did you hear anything out of the ordinary?”

  “I was here alright. But can’t say I heard anything out of the ordinary. Things are pretty quiet around here most of the time.”

  I grumbled. He wasn’t going to be any help. “Thank you. If you think of anything or hear anything, please give us a call.” I dug in my back pocket, then handed him my business card.

  “Sure. Just tell me this, is it that brazen Carlotta or her young demanding husband stretched out in there?”

  “Sounds like you know the couple that lives here.”

  “They’ve been here about five years. Everyone knew them. When they first moved in, I thought they were a mother and son.” The guy shifted his ample weight from one foot to the other. He perched his left elbow on the wooden stair rail. “I guess you can imagine my surprise when I found out they were newlyweds.”

  “Did you ever hear them argue?”

  “They argued a lot during the last year. But it wasn’t anything too crazy. I guess maybe I just got used to it after some time and learned to tune them out.” He chuckled. “It’s been really quiet the past couple of months, though.”

  He swallowed and rubbed his hand across his brow. “Another guy comes around and he fusses. A lot. At both of them. He’s younger than her, too. I think he’s her son.” He chuckled. “Or maybe he’s just her new boyfriend.”

  “Can you think of anything else, Mr...?”

  “Buckley. Jordan Buckley. Can’t think of anything else right now, but if I do ...” He held up the business card and waved it back and forth. “I’ll call ya.”

  “Thank you again,” I said.

  Mr. Buckley took the final step to get past the tape in the provided space, and walked up the stairs.

  In addition to taping, I’d been given the job of look-out. Sarge was expecting the widow to show up. I peered out the large window that was situated above the front door of the building. I recognized the Mercedes that parked in the no-parking zone as the car we were waiting for. It fit the description I’d been given. It was her. I poked my head in the doorway. “Sarge, the car just pulled up. The vic’s wife is on her way.”

  “Fine; keep her back behind the tape, though. We can’t have anyone trampling in and out of our crime scene, wife or not.”

  “Will do. Oh, and I just talked to a neighbor.” I looked behind the Sarge and saw Detectives Jones and Johnson diligently scanning the rooms for any pieces of evidence. They dusted pens, remotes, window ledges, and the door frames for prints. I watched as they used a special type of dusting powder and pressed tape into it to lift fingerprints. They maneuvered around the covered body like he was a piece of old furniture. They never even flinched at the thought that there was a dead guy lying in a pool of blood under that sheet.

  “Sarge,” Detective Johnson interrupted. He nodded his head in the direction of the door leading into the hall.

  As Sergeant Clancy turned, a well-taken-care-of older woman was standing in the apartment doorway.

  Carlotta Dupree

  When I received the phone call from the police that I was needed back at the apartment, I froze. I had a feeling something awful had finally happened to Chase. I had mixed feelings about the possibility of finding out my suspicion was true. Deep down, I’d thought it was only a matter of time before his lifestyle caught up with him. I told them I’d be right there, but I wasn’t in a rush. The traffic from Manhattan to Greenwich was busier than I’d expected, too, and afforded me an extra thirty minutes to make sure I was together by the time I arrived.

  I stood at the edge of the yellow plastic tape separating me from a covered lump on the floor I knew deep down in my gut was my husband. Chase had a list of enemies as long as his arm. Longer. I might have been at the top of the list, or at least in the top five. I had resented getting involved with him for months, once the reality set in that he had been using me from the onset. I couldn’t believe I fell for his manipulation game and agreed to marry the scheming dimwit.

  “Ma’am,” one of the detectives said. I craned my neck in his direction. “Ma’am, are you Carlotta Dupree? And was Professor Effridge your husband?” he asked.

  “Yeah, I’m her, and yes, he was. He’s my estranged husband.” It felt surreal standing in my own apartment doorway, looking at the covered body, and having a swarm of detectives milling about. My pulse raced.

  “I’m Sergeant Clancy, ma’am.” He slowly approached me. “I’m sorry to have you come here under these circumstances.”

  I lowered my head. I had no words. I wasn’t sad, I was stunned that the day I’d been expecting had finally come. I raised my eyes to meet with the Sergeant’s.

  “I hate to ask you this, but can you confirm this is your husband?”

  I nodded my head.

  The older gentleman made his way to the edge of the sheet. He lifted it just enough to reveal the face. Chase’s face. I knew it. I closed my eyes and nodded my head.

  “I’m sorry for your loss,” the detective said.

  “It was only a matter of time,” I let the words slip off my tongue before I even realized my mouth had opened. I swiped my shaking fingers across my forehead, brushing my flyaway hairs aside, then retrieved a cigarette from the pack I was holding in my hand and lit it. I took a long, deep drag, and then exhaled as I watched the commotion in my apartment. My eyes never roamed far from their fixation on Chase. My heart felt like it had stopped beating at the sight of him. As much as I hated what he’d done to me, I didn’t like seeing him like that. Or maybe I did feel revenge had been exacted. At one time, I loved him more than life itself. But when the truth came out, I hated him. Now, I was in disbelief. I didn’t know how to feel.

  I definitely didn’t have a desire to run to him, throw myself on the floor next to him, or to clutch him tight to my bosom like most wives might. I just couldn’t bring myself to cry in agony at the loss of my not-so-darling husband, either. I couldn’t allow myself to feel sad that someone had ended his miserable life. The same existence I’d come to despise.

  I dropped my hand down to my side as I exhaled slowly, letting the smoke ease out between my pursed lips. “Someone finally killed him. I knew it would happen one day.”

  He had made the last year of our marriage a nightmare. I suppose it could have been worse if I’d realized sooner what he’d been up to, but I worked so much. I hadn’t paid that much attention to him and his antics until about a year and a half ago. When it was already too late.

  I inhaled, then exhaled deeply when I realized where he was lying. Chase’s blood had soaked into my beautiful beaded silk and deer-hide rug. He’d complained about it incessantly, the most expensive and unique rug I’d purchased. He’d sworn it was too light of a color and would certainly stain and be ruined if something spilled on it. Now, of all places for him to lie as his bodily fluids drained from his selfish head, there he was – staining it himself. Even in death he was finding a final way to tear me down. He was a fuck-up, and I hated that I hadn’t realized it much sooner. I shook my head in disgust.

  As I leaned back against the door jamb, I pressed my lips tightly around the cigarette butt again, inhaling deeply, holding the smoke and nicotine in my lungs until it burned. A million thoughts were racing in my mind. I’d wanted him dead. I’d wished him dead. What sane woman who lived in my shoes wouldn’t? He was an arrogant, two-timing, no-good excuse for a man. Good-looking as all get out, but unfaithful, untrustworthy, and simply no damn good.

  Hell, yes, I wanted him dead. On top of everything he’d put me through he’d refused to sign the divorce papers, chiding that the vows we took were ‘till death do us part.’ As I took another glance at his lifeless form, I couldn’t help but think, good fucking riddance, Chase, you b
astard!

  Detective Oliver

  I suspected who she was as she stood near me, but was stunned at her response if she was, indeed, his wife. I already suspected I knew the answer, but then Sarge talked to her and she confirmed it. Sarge twisted his mouth into a scowl when he looked at me. I wasn’t able to read the complete meaning of his perplexed look, but it wasn’t favorable.

  She raised the cigarette to her red-painted lips, inhaling, and then exhaled. Blowing the smoke in my direction. Bitch. She tossed the cigarette butt onto the wooden hallway floor, then immediately ground it beneath the toe of her shoe over and over, twisting her ankle back and forth like she was killing a bug.

  “We’d like to talk to you, ma’am,” I said, using my authoritative voice.

  “I figured you would. I may have wished him dead, but trust me, I didn’t kill him,” she said.

  Her cold, callous demeanor and lack of any emotion at all made the tiny hairs on the back of my neck prickle. I wasn’t exactly sure how she’d react when she arrived, but this wasn’t it.

  I remembered Sarge telling me about a case he was on before I’d joined the force. The husband had been shot in a home invasion. When the wife saw him, she was crying uncontrollably and screaming with grief. The guy was still alive, too. Sarge said it was so bad, they had to take her to the hospital to be treated alongside her husband. The poor guy died in surgery, and when the wife found out she asked the doctor to give her something to kill her. She said she couldn’t live without her husband. The woman’s heart break was evident to everyone, he said. But Mrs. Dupree wasn’t visibly woeful at all.

  “We should talk at the station, if you don’t mind,” I continued.

  “Fine; sure, we can talk. I don’t know what I can tell you. I wasn’t here. I moved out of our apartment over two months ago. Our relationship had long been over and I couldn’t take living with him anymore.”