Blue Avenue Read online

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Recent Titles by Michael Wiley

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Recent Titles by Michael Wiley

  The Joe Kozmarski Series

  LAST STRIPTEASE

  THE BAD KITTY LOUNGE

  A BAD NIGHT’S SLEEP

  The Detective Daniel Turner Mysteries

  BLUE AVENUE *

  * available from Severn House

  BLUE AVENUE

  Michael Wiley

  This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  This first world edition published 2014

  in Great Britain and the USA by

  SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of

  19 Cedar Road, Sutton, Surrey, England, SM2 5DA.

  Trade paperback edition first published

  in Great Britain and the USA 2015 by

  SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD

  eBook edition first published in 2014 by Severn House Digital

  an imprint of Severn House Publishers Limited

  Copyright © 2014 by Michael Wiley

  The right of Michael Wiley to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

  Wiley, Michael, 1961 – author.

  Blue Avenue.

  1. Police–Florida–Jacksonville–Fiction.

  2. Serial murder investigation–Florida–Jacksonville–Fiction.

  3. Detective and mystery stories.

  I. Title

  813.6-dc23

  ISBN-13: 978-0-7278-8429-9 (cased)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-84751-539-1 (trade paper)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-78010-584-0 (ebook)

  Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.

  This ebook produced by

  Palimpsest Book Production Limited, Falkirk,

  Stirlingshire, Scotland.

  For Julie, Isaac, Maya and Elias

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Homicide Detectives K.L. Haines and John Hinton, for driving me through the night. Judy Defonzo, for driving me through the gun barrel. Brad Way, for driving me across crime scenes. Julia Burns and Sam Kimball, for driving me through the drafts. Christine Kane, for driving me across the web. Philip Spitzer, Lukas Ortiz and Luc Hunt, for driving me forward. Kate Lyall Grant and Sara Porter, for driving me across the page and to the market. I couldn’t have gotten there without you.

  ONE

  It’s the kind of dream that’s more real than waking, and when you do wake it colors your mind all day and into next week like guilty sex in which one of you gets hurt. I’m a kid again, seventeen, two years older than my son Thomas is now and seven years before I marry Susan. I’m walking on railroad tracks a half mile from my house. I’m with Belinda, my first real girlfriend. Her skin’s as black as my pale ass is white and her long hair hangs down her back in a braid that swings like a metronome, a bright pink elastic band at the bottom holding the strands together, and I hope I never see a girl as pretty as her again because beauty like hers hurts too much. Our feet crunch on the gravel and the afternoon sun shines on her skin. On the side of the tracks, low-lying saw palmettos stand still in the breezeless air. Wild grape vines tug at the trunk of a diseased live oak. Mounds of kudzu rise like Indian burials. A fly is buzzing somewhere.

  Belinda talks to the air in front of her, shyly. ‘Dad thinks you’re no good for me.’

  I stumble on a creosote-stained railroad tie, catch my balance. I haven’t thought of being no good for her and I wonder why. ‘What d’you think? Your dad right?’

  She turns to me with a sly grin that rises on one side of her mouth only. ‘I hope so.’

  A single eye of light appears a mile down the tracks.

  ‘Train’s coming,’ I say.

  She squints. ‘You sure?’

  Sunlight glints on metal.

  ‘Coming slow, but coming.’

  She turns to face me. She unbuttons her blouse.

  ‘What’re you doing?’ I ask.

  She smiles. ‘Sometimes you say the dumbest things.’ She lets the blouse fall between the tracks, unhooks her bra and lets it fall too. She unzips her jeans and lets them slide over her hips to the gravel rail bed. She stands naked on the tracks, the sun shining on her black shoulders, her nipples erect. She cocks her head to the side.

  My throat’s dry. My voice catches. ‘Train’s coming.’

  She looks over her shoulder. The train’s still far in the distance but now a steady glimmer in the sun. She turns to me. ‘Uh huh.’

  ‘You’re crazy,’ I say and I take off my pants.

  I enter her as the first dull vibrations of the approaching train shake the ground. A moment later I burst. She holds me to her. The train is close and the ground shudders. I try to pull away. I say, ‘Get up.’

  ‘Uh uh,’ she says, holding me. The train closes slowly and at its first whistle she comes, bucking like a terrible muscle.

  I rip apart from her and crawl on to the embankment. I yell her name but she lies mesmerized by the single eye of the approaching train. I yell and reach for her but from ten feet away, maybe more. I’m scared. Too scared to go to her. Too scared to save her. She lies with her legs open. She doesn’t roll away from the tracks the way she did in real life twenty-five years ago. She lies between the rails and waits for the train to take her. I open my mouth again to scream but no sound comes or, if it does, the sound of the engine, the screech of metal wheels against metal rails and the wailing whistle consume the scream and no one can hear me, not even myself. I want to go to her but I’m afraid and so I do nothing. I lie on the embankment and scream emptily into the roar.

  The train takes her.

  Steel crashes over her with the methodical rumble of a factory machine. The train comes and keeps coming. As far as my eyes can see, it comes. In the dream the train will never end until suddenly it does and is gone like a shadow disappearing in the afternoon sun. I crawl across the embankment, the gray and white bed stones cutting my hands and knees, and I peer at the spot where she and I were lying.

  Belinda’s gone. There’s no blood, no skin, no hair, no fragment of bone. No clothing. No jewelry. Nothing to say that a freight train has taken a young girl’s
life. Not even a stain where we’ve lain.

  I crawl down the other embankment, searching for her. She’s not there and I imagine the train continuing into the afternoon, Belinda’s body impaled on the front coupler of the engine like an insane hood ornament. Then I see the pink hair band that had held her braid. It’s hanging from a frond of a saw palmetto.

  I first had the dream on the night Susan and Thomas came home from the maternity ward. When I woke, Susan had fear in her eyes. She said I’d cried out in my sleep. A week later she moved a bed into the sunroom and she’s been there ever since, showing my shame to the neighbors. I had the dream for the last time on the night before Daniel Turner – now a police lieutenant detective though I’d known him since we played football as kids – called to tell me that Belinda, twenty-five years after I last saw her, was dead.

  Daniel called a couple of minutes before seven. Thomas was sleeping and Susan and I were eating breakfast on the back terrace of the Metro, a diner that fronted on San Jose Boulevard where you could hear the noise and smell the fumes of the coming day, but the terrace was trellised on three sides, bougainvillea climbed the trellises and cool water always seemed to be dripping even in the heat of day. The waitress wore a little black skirt over bare legs and I knew what I would have liked to do if the circumstances had been different. A green umbrella shaded the table though the sun hadn’t yet risen above the diner roof. A plate with the remains of a poached egg and toast sat on the table in front of Susan but she was reading the menu the way she had done lately as though she might be regretting the decision she’d made and want to order something new. It was an annoying habit and I opened my mouth to say so but thought better of it.

  She looked over the top of the menu and said, ‘What?’

  Then my cell phone rang.

  ‘Just a sec.’ I answered the phone.

  ‘BB,’ said Daniel.

  ‘Morning, Lieutenant. Starting the day right?’ For Daniel, starting the day right meant sitting behind his house on a wooden dock that stuck into Black Creek, his head shaded by the oak canopy.

  ‘Startin’ real wrong,’ he said. ‘I’m working a homicide on the Northside. Pretty lady about our age. Homeless man found her an hour ago in a pile of trash. Scared the hell out of him. Killer wrapped her in cellophane like a supermarket chicken. In this heat, she was cooking in the plastic.’

  ‘Jesus, Daniel. And why’re you wrecking my breakfast with the news?’

  ‘You know the summer you spent with that black girl Belinda Mabry?’

  My stomach fell. I didn’t tell him I’d awakened an hour earlier from a dream about that summer. ‘Yeah?’

  ‘ID on the body says that’s who the lady is.’

  My breakfast moved back up into my throat.

  He added, ‘I thought you might be interested.’

  I shook my head, trying to get my mind around the idea. Susan had gone back to reading the menu. I said, ‘She left the city twenty-five years ago.’

  ‘She found her way back.’

  ‘You sure it’s the same?

  ‘That’s why I called. You want to come look? You think you’d still recognize her?’

  ‘Yeah, maybe. Jesus, Daniel.’

  When I hung up, I realized I was sweating. I wiped my hands on my pants. Susan had her eyes on her menu. ‘What was that?’ she said.

  ‘Daniel Turner. A woman got killed last night.’

  Her eyes rose and met mine. They were cold eyes, as if coldness could protect all that was vulnerable in her. ‘Someone we know?’

  ‘I did,’ I said. ‘When I was a kid.’

  For a while she watched me sweat but her voice softened. ‘You knew her well?’

  I nodded.

  ‘That’s terrible.’

  ‘It was a long time ago,’ I said.

  She nodded. ‘Still.’ She turned back to the menu.

  The waitress stopped at the table and asked if she could take away our plates. Susan kept reading as if the waitress were talking only to me. I waved at the plates like they were insects, and the waitress cleared the table.

  ‘Daniel wants me to identify the body,’ I said. ‘It could be someone else.’ As if that would help Susan.

  ‘You can drop me off at home,’ she said.

  Rush-hour traffic backed up at the bridge. The cars shimmered in the morning sunlight. Twenty miles off the Atlantic coast, the air smelled less of saltwater than the chemical sweetness of the downtown Folger’s coffee processing plant and the paper mills upriver. Thirty years ago you couldn’t drive with the windows open because of the stink, but then the mayor got smart and made the mills use filters so that the sulfur didn’t knock birds out of the sky. Now you might think you were driving past a bakery if you didn’t know better. The river under the bridge sparkled hard and bright in the morning sun, a motorboat cut a long J in the water, and I knew that peace was possible even in a city as old and rotten as this.

  The highway north of the river cut past industrial lots and a big old three-story brown brick building that once was a school and then a nursing home for the indigent until a state report showed a pattern of abuse and standards of hygiene that would shock a river rat, and now had been abandoned to vines and weeds that ate into the mortar and covered the door to the front hall, which, it seemed to me, was how it should be. I exited on King Street, passed the post office, crossed over a sanitary canal and turned on Blue Avenue. The houses were wood-frame bungalows, jacked off the ground on cinderblocks. One had a rusty carport. Others had belly-high chain-link fences in front. An empty tar can lay on its side in a driveway. The little yards were sand and dirt and weed – what the world would return to when we were gone.

  A quarter mile in from King Street the police had blocked the road. I pulled to the side behind a news van. A crowd from the neighborhood stood at the barrier. Most were black, though a skinny girl who I figured was Vietnamese hung at the edge and a pasty-faced white woman leaned on one of the barricades next to a tall barefooted black woman. A man from the news van stood to the side with a video camera on his shoulder. Half a block in from the barricades the police had set up a second perimeter with yellow crime-scene tape which they’d strung from a stop sign to a large tree on the corner of an empty lot, around holly bushes, along a chain-link fence and around another tree and more bushes, circling the lot and returning to the stop sign.

  A young cop stood on the other side of the barricades. I went to him and gestured at the yellow tape. ‘Lieutenant Turner called me,’ I said. ‘He asked me to come over.’

  He looked like he didn’t believe it. ‘Your name is?’

  ‘William Byrd.’

  He took his radio off his belt and talked to someone, then waved me around the barricade. ‘Hope you didn’t eat anything soft for breakfast,’ he said as we stepped away from the crowd. ‘That spot in the shade of the oak, that’s where the others’ve been going. If you need to.’ He walked me past a half-dozen police cars and a forensic van to the second perimeter and lifted the tape for me to cross under. The sun rose over the trees and beat down on the back of my head with a sudden heat. I looked over my shoulder. The sun was as pale and hard as alabaster.

  A plainclothes cop was talking to a raggedy haired barefoot black man in dirty blue pants and a sweat-stained white T-shirt – the homeless man who’d found Belinda’s body, I supposed.

  A dozen uniformed cops milled around, more than I would’ve expected for a Northside homicide. Daniel stood talking with two plainclothes cops outside a white crime-scene tent. He was a big man but with small feet that made him look lighter than he was, as if he could dance on his toes or fly. As a kid he’d had red hair but now it was white or gone – mostly gone. Beyond the tent was a fire pit full of burned trash. An assortment of chairs stood around the pit. To the side, a large dirty sheet of white foam rubber lay on the ground. Empty beer cans peeked from the weeds behind the chairs. Four officers wearing gloves were poking through the weeds for evidence.

  I join
ed Daniel and he swung an arm over my shoulders without looking at me or breaking the conversation. He’d gone to college on a track-and-field scholarship – shot put – before dropping out during his sophomore year. When his hand squeezed my shoulder I knew he could break it if he wanted to. ‘Get the door-to-door started,’ he said to one of the cops. ‘Find out who parties here, who was here last night.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said the cop, a kid barely off his last acne. He was sweating from something more than the morning heat. ‘You want us to tell the neighbors anything?’

  Daniel put an edge in his voice. ‘Yeah, tell them a woman got cut up and dumped on their front yard. Tell them we’ve never seen anything this bad. Tell them a psychopath’s been driving through their neighborhood. Tell them to keep their doors locked and their handguns loaded.’ He shook his head. ‘No, Jerry. Keep it simple.’

  The young cop’s face flushed. ‘Yes, sir.’

  He went to do his job and Daniel mumbled, ‘Christ,’ forcing a smile. ‘Thanks for coming, BB,’ he said. He gestured at the small dark-haired woman who stood across from him. ‘This is my partner, Denise Nuñez. Denise, William Byrd. Everyone calls him BB.’

  She nodded. ‘I know who you are.’

  I looked at Daniel. He shrugged. ‘Not from me.’

  Then he guided me into the tent. ‘Hope you’ve got a strong stomach this morning,’ he said.

  The air inside was hot and still and smelled of the beginning of decay. Flies buzzed angrily.

  A forensic technician in a facemask and gloves was leaning over a woman’s body that had been stuffed inside a clear plastic bag meant for lawn waste. The woman was naked and doubled up like a diver doing a pike, her ankles over her ears, her legs tied with clothesline around her neck. She lay on her back, her eyes staring up between her legs at the roof of the tent. The pinkness of her vagina pressed raw and swollen against the clear plastic. Her hair, which she’d ironed straight and worn long when I’d known her, was cut short into a tight afro salted with gray. Her lips turned up in a death grin. I wished I didn’t recognize her. But I did.