THE DEAD OF WYNTER
By
Dana Warryck
Unedited excerpt...
This is a work of fiction. All characters,
events, and places are of the author’s imagination and not
to be confused with fact. Any resemblance to living persons
or events is merely coincidence.
CHAPTER 1
The mini-blind slats crinkled as Wynter spread them wide and glared at the jumbo white flakes swirling under the streetlight outside her third-story bedroom window. The snow, predicted to arrive in the morning, had come several hours early. Her hands started shaking again. She whirled away, and the mini-blinds fell back in place with a tinny clink.
Raking her fingers through her hair, she paced the white carpet. Her gut gnarled, and she ran a palm across the spasm, trying to slow the inevitable. But there was no avoiding it. Her curse had returned earlier than expected. The pain in her head and stomach spread quickly to include her joints and extremities, and would get worse – much worse. She’d waited too long to feed. Now a blizzard raged. No one in their right mind would go out in this weather, not even the depraved. She would have one hell of a time finding satisfaction tonight.
Damn Detroit’s shitty weather!
Pressing her palms against her throbbing temples, she growled. She couldn’t blame the weather for her situation. She’d put off feeding, hoping to wait out the storm and maybe let the news die down about a suspected serial killer on the loose, but she miscalculated on both counts. The weather had turned on her, and so had the media.
She sank down on her bed and rubbed the back of her neck. She’d overstayed her welcome in this hardnosed, blue-collar town. Large and uncaring, Detroit seemed like the perfect place for someone destined to always be alone. In a city this big, it was easy for her to take what she needed to survive without being noticed. But she’d allowed herself to become too comfortable frequenting her favorite haunts that offered plentiful hunting. Of late, she’d fed at least once a week and had attracted unwanted attention with her gluttonous activities. The police had taken notice of the dead bodies she left behind, and soon they’d retrace the trail back to her doorstep. It was past time for her to move on.
The thought of relocating yet again made her stomach clench hard. She was tired of hiding and then running when things got too hot. She wanted to settle down, stay somewhere for more than a year, even if she could never enjoy friends or have a family.
Her aching fingers reminded her she needed to hurry. She grabbed fistfuls of her hair in frustration and launched off the bed, dashing to her custom walk-in closet. Raking aside evening gowns and party dresses, she searched for something warm yet revealing that would appeal to that special kind of man who would fulfill her needs this evening. She could wear a gunnysack and still attract that type of man, but she relished beautiful clothes. The tang of leather, the brush of genuine fur, the cascading swish of silk – all of it made her feel pampered and special. Her expansive, luxurious wardrobe was the one perk she allowed herself in an otherwise empty life.
Spotting a soft pink angora sweater that fit like a glove, she yanked it from the shelf, and grabbed a pair of black, stretchy, skintight leggings that screamed, “Take me!” Short black spike-heeled boots completed the look of sexy vulnerability that never failed to attract her prey. If some fool actually ventured out in this hell-storm tonight, looking for trouble, she’d find him and reel him in. Throwing on a midriff alpaca jacket, she raced to her apartment door.
* * * * *
Detective Orin Sharpe slid his badge back into his jacket pocket and wrinkled his nose at the murky smell permeating the grungy bar. Cigarette-free for the last ten years, he found the mix of smoke, stale booze, and urine particularly offensive. This was the last place he wanted to be tonight, after blowing off potential dates with three different women so he could hole up in his apartment and watch the game. But instead of staying home where it was nice and warm, he had braved a wannabe blizzard to waste his evening in this stink hole, canvassing patrons of the rough-and-tumble establishment for answers. Unfortunately, damn few people were dumb enough to venture out this evening and provide the answers he sought.
Resting a palm beside the photos he’d spread on the beat-up wooden counter, he looked over at the man behind the bar trying to ignore him. “You can’t recall a single one of these men being in here sometime in the last month?”
Albert Billingham, the barkeep and owner of Big Al’s Bar and Grill, a grizzly bear masquerading as a man, tipped his fat, furry head and pretended to glance at the pictures. “Nope.” He looked away and continued sloshing glasses in a sink behind the counter.
Orin settled back on the ripped red vinyl upholstery of the metal barstool, wanting nothing more than to accept Billingham’s monosyllabic response and go home. But the steady stream of mysterious deaths near shit-hole bars and other unsavory dives over the past five months, with inconclusive autopsies and no clues whatsoever to help explain the causes of death, created a pattern that looked suspiciously like the work of a virulent contagion or a serial killer. After the last victim a week ago, presumably a respectable family man who also happened to be a friend of Mayor Petrelli, Chief Dixon had come under increased pressure to provide answers. It was Orin’s job to get those answers, but so far he’d come up with zip.
“This guy,” he said, spearing the middle picture with his right index finger, “was found dead in the alley right behind your building, just last week. Take a closer look.”
The bartender flashed him a sneer. “I don’t need a closer look, Detective. I already told you. I get a few regulars that stop in here on their way home from work – or maybe on their way in to work. But most of the guys that come in, I never see again, and he’s one of them. I might’ve seen him once, maybe twice, but not often enough to ID him or even remember him.”
“I’m not asking you to identify him. We already have his name and address from his wallet found on his body. His wife and three kids want to know what the hell happened to make him die. And so does the mayor, who happened to be a friend of his. What I need from you is some answers, Mr. Billingham. Do you remember if he came in here, talked to anyone, or maybe met someone?”
The bartender, obviously realizing Orin wasn’t going to give up and go away, huffed and wiped his hands on his grubby apron. He slashed out a paw and ripped the middle photo from the counter. After examining it for a second, he slammed it back down in front of Orin. “Yeah, he was in here. Last week sometime.”
“Wednesday night, around nine?”
“Maybe. Could’ve been.”
“Can you tell me anything at all about him? How long did he stay? When did he leave?” And why the hell was he on this side of town on a Wednesday night? Looking for some strange, obviously. Did the mayor really want those kinds of questions answered about his dead buddy?
“You know, it might not look like I’m busy right now, with nobody in here but you, but I really do–”
“Humor me, Mr. Billingham.”
The bartender scowled straight at Orin, his burly shoulders bristling. After a second he said, “We danced the night away, had a wonderful time. I gave him my number, but he never called – the lousy bastard.”
It was Orin’s turn to scowl. “This isn’t a joke, Mr. Billingham, and it’s not an isolated incident. I need to find someone who spoke with him before he died. Someone who might have knowledge about his condition or some circumstance that could help explain why he was here and what caused him to die. I’m trying to stop whatever has been happening to these men, whether it’s an infectious disease, poison, or whatever. I need your help.”
Billingham leaned forward with menace. “My place might not be the cleanest in town, but I ain’t got no diseases in here. And I sure as hell ain’t in the habit of poisoning my customers. Bad for business.”
Orin took a deep, calming breath. “I’m not suggesting you had anything to do with the deaths. I’m just asking for some background information. The faster you cooperate, the faster you’ll be rid of me.”
The bartender wiped his hands on his apron again. His rugged face softened slightly as he rested his huge hands on the edge of the bar. “Okay. I can tell you this about your dead guy, Detective. He came in, sat down two seats to your right, ordered a beer, and never said another word. Just pointed at his glass for refills. He stayed about an hour, had two more beers, then left. No tip.”
So, he wasn’t exactly in a hurry. Was he waiting for something – someone? “He left alone?”
When the door jingled, the barkeep glanced past Orin’s head. Orin turned to follow his gaze and saw her. His heart skidded to a stop. She was ... incredible.
Petite, she packed a punch in that sleek, sexy outfit. With her white marble complexion and thick, black, snow-dappled mane tumbling effortlessly about her fur jacket, she looked like a wintry goddess or some airbrushed model that walked straight out of a snow-bunny ad for lipstick or hair color or expensive booze. Sex sells, and he was ready to buy. Whatever the cost, he wanted her.
The barkeep grunted and grumbled, “Yep, your guy left alone – sort of.”
“Sort of?” Orin echoed halfheartedly. He heard the odd sarcasm in Billingham’s voice and wanted to turn back to face him, but he couldn’t take his eyes off the woman who stood near the door, frozen in her tracks like a deer startled by oncoming headlights. He felt himself falling into her huge, silvery blue eyes rimmed with dark lashes thick as woolly worms. His head swam, and he caught the edge of the bar counter to keep from slumping forward and slipping off his seat.
“If I remember right,” the barkeep added, “your man left right after she did.”
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