On the rooftop of Raymond Donne’s school, Maurice ‘MoJo’ Joseph’s lifeless body is found with an arrow sticking out of its back.
Mojo had recently gone through drug rehab, but was turning his life around. He had a baby on the way while also working at the school and for a security company. But was he so clean? Heroin was found in his system and in his possession, and he’d been secretly carrying out security work for a notorious White Nationalist.
Donne’s ex-cop instincts tell him something doesn’t add up. When Allison Rogers, an online journalist and Donne’s long-time girlfriend, runs insider stories from a runaway of the White Nationalists and a mysterious man turns up saying MoJo was working for him, Donne takes it upon himself, with the help of his techno-friend Edgar, to investigate.
What was MoJo up to, and was he back to his old ways?
On the rooftop of Raymond Donne’s school, Maurice ‘MoJo’ Joseph’s lifeless body is found with an arrow sticking out of its back.
Mojo had recently gone through drug rehab, but was turning his life around. He had a baby on the way while also working at the school and for a security company. But was he so clean? Heroin was found in his system and in his possession, and he’d been secretly carrying out security work for a notorious White Nationalist.
Donne’s ex-cop instincts tell him something doesn’t add up. When Allison Rogers, an online journalist and Donne’s long-time girlfriend, runs insider stories from a runaway of the White Nationalists and a mysterious man turns up saying MoJo was working for him, Donne takes it upon himself, with the help of his techno-friend Edgar, to investigate.
What was MoJo up to, and was he back to his old ways?
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Overview
On the rooftop of Raymond Donne’s school, Maurice ‘MoJo’ Joseph’s lifeless body is found with an arrow sticking out of its back.
Mojo had recently gone through drug rehab, but was turning his life around. He had a baby on the way while also working at the school and for a security company. But was he so clean? Heroin was found in his system and in his possession, and he’d been secretly carrying out security work for a notorious White Nationalist.
Donne’s ex-cop instincts tell him something doesn’t add up. When Allison Rogers, an online journalist and Donne’s long-time girlfriend, runs insider stories from a runaway of the White Nationalists and a mysterious man turns up saying MoJo was working for him, Donne takes it upon himself, with the help of his techno-friend Edgar, to investigate.
What was MoJo up to, and was he back to his old ways?
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9780727889188 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Severn House |
| Publication date: | 03/03/2020 |
| Series: | A Raymond Donne mystery , #5 |
| Edition description: | First World Publication |
| Pages: | 240 |
| Product dimensions: | 5.60(w) x 8.50(h) x 1.00(d) |
About the Author
Read an Excerpt
CHAPTER 1
Detective James Royce of Brooklyn North, NYPD, looked down at Maurice Joseph's lifeless body lying in two inches of freshly fallen snow with an arrow sticking out of his back. 'You, Mr Donne,' he said, still looking at the dead man in front of us, 'are turning into Williamsburg's own Jessica Fuckin' Fletcher.'
'What's that supposed to mean?' I asked.
He turned his glance to me. 'Come on. Murder, She Wrote. Jessica Fletcher?'
'I get the reference, Detective. My mom used to watch it every Sunday night. The one hour a week she wouldn't answer the phone. I don't know what it has to do —'
'Being with you is like visiting Cabot Cove, Maine.' He shook his head. 'Dead bodies just seem to pop up everywhere you go.'
I rubbed my weary eyes. 'Royce, I know it seems that —'
'No, no. Really, Mr Donne.' He held up his right hand like a traffic cop. 'I've known you ... what, now ... five, six years?'
'Give or take, yeah.'
'And in that time, you've been around more dead bodies than an intern at the city morgue.' He scratched at his salt-and-pepper goatee. I noticed his closely cropped Afro was also getting white. Deep down, I knew I was the reason behind some of that gray hair. 'I mean, no offense, but if my daughter attended school here, I'd transfer her the hell out. I'd be afraid something would happen to her.'
I knew he was trying to be funny – in that gallows humor sort of way that so many cops think they have – but I was not in the mood. A guy I worked with had just been murdered on the roof of my school as he was checking out his hydroponic vegetable garden and his pigeons. The fact he'd been killed by an arrow – as in bow-and-arrow – added to the surreal feeling coursing through my body. I did a slow eyes-wide-open three-sixty and took a few deep breaths.
'What are you doing?' asked Royce, tapping his notebook against his thigh.
'I'm trying to calm myself down. You think I get used to seeing dead bodies?'
'No,' he said. 'I'd worry about that.' He scratched his chin again. 'I also know you're not just calming yourself down. Most people do that with their eyes closed. You're doing something completely different.'
'Really? What else am I doing, Detective?'
He grinned and touched my shoulder with his index finger a few times. 'You're scoping out the crime scene, Mister Donne.' The grin turned into a few short chuckles. 'I truly don't think you can help yourself.'
'I don't know what you're talking about.' I took a step back from him. 'And lose the laughter, OK?'
'Sorry,' he said. 'But I believe I just watched you case the crime scene. At least this part of it.'
I shook my head. 'Listen, you got my statement, can't I just —'
'Whatta ya know, Donne? What did that little' – he pointed his index finger toward the sky and spun it around – 'observational pirouette you just did tell you?'
He wasn't going to give up. Partly because he liked annoying me, partly because we both knew he was right. I could not help myself.
I took in some air. 'First,' I said, 'this was not a random incident. Nobody waits around for someone to show up on the roof of a school building for target practice.'
'Agreed,' Royce said.
'Out of the four buildings around the school,' I began, 'there're three rooftops the shooter could have used. Kind of risky using a rooftop; lots of exposure.' Three of the four buildings around us were five-storys high, a good ten feet higher than my school. I looked down at the arrow sticking out of MoJo's back. 'I'm not sure about the windows because it would be hard for the killer to be able to get into an apartment. That's also risky, possibly noisy and too traceable. Based on the angle of the entry of the arrow, I think we can assume this was not an accident.'
'OK,' Royce said. 'What else?'
'Whoever did this knew MoJo would be up here at this time. Again, you don't wait around on a roof in early April snow flurries hoping your intended target shows up before someone notices you on the roof of a housing project with a bow and arrow.' I thought of the other option. 'Same goes for a window. You're not going to use your own place, so you only have a small ... window of time to get the job done. The shooter knew MoJo'd be up here at this time. Means he scoped out the area for a while. Once the deed is done, you'd wanna get gone as soon as possible.'
'Good.' Royce nodded. 'That reminds me,' he said. 'I know you told the responding officers, but tell me how you happened to be up on the school roof at four-thirty on a Thursday afternoon. Isn't there a beer with your name on it somewhere?'
'I was finishing up some paperwork,' I said. 'I got a text from MoJo to meet —'
'A text from who?'
'MoJo.' I gestured with my head down at Maurice. 'He liked to be called MoJo. It was a mix of his first and last names.'
Royce nodded. 'So he texted you ... why?'
'I don't know. He asked if I was still in the building. When I said I was, he asked me to meet him on the roof. I told him I'd be up in fifteen, twenty minutes, and ...'
Royce and I looked around the roof: crime scene techs, a couple of uniforms, and my principal, Ron Thomas, pacing and looking as if he were about to have a stroke. Ron was perfectly happy having me speak with the cops. He didn't like talking to them, but I used to be one of them. A perfect match.
'And he was up here ...'
'Checking on his garden,' I said. 'He was concerned about the snow and his hydroponics system. He was going to cover the plants for the weekend. There might be more snow coming tonight.'
'What about the pigeons?'
'They're pigeons. I'm not sure if he was going to cover them, but I think they'll survive a nuclear blast. With the cockroaches.'
'I mean, why have them up here at all?'
'It was one of his hobbies,' I said. 'He made a deal with Mr Thomas and the head custodian. He'd teach the kids about organic gardening, if he could keep a coop of pigeons on the roof.'
'So, Mr Maurice worked here?'
'Mr Joseph,' I corrected. 'He didn't actually work here. He was doing community service three days a week. Monday, Wednesday and Friday.'
Royce's face went quizzical. 'Community service? For what?'
'MoJo was a repeat drug offender. An addict. This' – I waved my hand at the garden and pigeon coop – 'was part of his outpatient program. You ever hear of Newer Leaves, Detective?'
'They let him work around kids?'
'Yeah,' I said, not hiding my disgust with his attitude. 'MoJo was an addict, Detective. Not a Catholic priest. He was a non-violent offender. Like most addicts. He was no more of a danger to the kids than I am.'
I could tell he wanted to bring up the Jessica Fletcher thing again, but he thought better of it.
'Not all addicts are non-violent, Mr Donne,' Royce felt the need to add. 'Just ask all the victims of purse-snatching and smash-and-grabs.'
'Well, MoJo was,' I said. 'He and his wife both had decent jobs. He didn't have to scrounge for drug money.'
'Sounds like he —' Royce began, but I interrupted.
'He lost his job because of the addiction. He and his wife Lisa are expecting. She's planning on working as long as she can.'
'What kinda work did he do?'
'IT, mostly,' I said. 'He specialized in building firewalls, protecting companies from getting their systems hacked, stuff like that. He was making a small income from that.' I paused. 'You remember my friend, Edgar Martinez? From The LineUp.'
Royce smiled. 'You don't forget a guy like Edgar.'
'True. Edgar hooked him up with me. They've known – knew – each other for a few years; they met online, then in-person, then started a small company doing security. Virtual and actual.'
That's when it hit me I'd have to break the news to Edgar. Edgar didn't take the news of an unexpected Yankee trade well; God knew how he'd handle this. He didn't have many friends outside of me, my girlfriend Allison, and MoJo. We were working on that. My phone buzzed. Allison.
'Excuse me, Detective,' I said to Royce.
'We're not done, Donne,' he said and smiled at the way that sounded.
'I should take this.' I took a few steps away. 'Hey, Allie.'
'What's wrong, Raymond?' she asked. That was one of the problems with living with a reporter: you couldn't put much past one. Especially one as good as Allison.
I lowered my voice. 'You remember Maurice Joseph?'
Three-second pause, then, 'MoJo? Sure. What about him?' I cleared my voice and swallowed. 'He's dead. Someone shot him.'
Silence from her end for about five seconds before, 'Oh my God, Ray. What happened?'
I gave her the thirty-second version – and had to repeat the part about the arrow – and she told me she was on her way. I almost asked if she were coming as my caring girlfriend or a curious journalist. I didn't ask that question because I had learned not to ask that question. And I'd learned it the hard way. Royce wasn't so far off about dead bodies and me, and this would not be the first time that Allison's job and my connections to recently deceased people collided.
Knowing there was nothing else to say, I said, 'I'll see you when you get here.'
She broke off our conversation without saying goodbye. Like they do on TV shows all the time.
I turned back to Royce. He was writing something in his notebook, and without looking at me, said, 'That your girlfriend?' Before I could ask how he knew who I was talking to, he added, 'I'm a detective, Mr Donne. With real training. I do hope you told her to stay away from the active crime scene.'
I waited for him to laugh. When he didn't, I said, 'You can tell her when she gets here, Detective. That's a conversation I don't have with her. Anymore.'
He pointed the eraser of his pencil at me. 'At least you're learning. Why is she interested anyway? I heard she got shit-canned with all the other less-senior journalists at her paper. Did she land another gig?' 'She did.' Allison had been let go in the latest wave of cutbacks. More victims of the Internet. 'She and some friends started a website, kind of a citywide all-five-boroughs thing. She mostly covers the crime beat.'
'And this pays her rent?'
I could have told him I was paying her rent, but decided not to. 'They've got a few advertisers and subscribers,' I said. 'And a rich friend from college who's giving them a year to show viability.'
'Viability?'
'That's how the investment class refers to making a profit. It's kinda like Facebook meets America's Most Wanted meets the offbeat news cycle. They make money on subscribers, some ads – business and personal.'
'Now you're dating yourself, Mr Donne. People don't read personal ads anymore. They swipe left or right. Either way,' he added, 'paper, electronic, smoke signals, no reporters will be allowed up here to the crime scene. The school is city property. If a photo of the victim with an arrow in his back shows up online or in print, I'll know whose shoes to bust.'
'You think I'd take advantage of my access to the crime scene just to make my girlfriend's job easier?'
Detective Royce smirked. 'No,' he said. 'That'd never happen. Not up here in Cabot Cove.'
CHAPTER 2Ten minutes later, Allison got out of a taxi right in front of my school. She was wearing her light blue winter jacket I'd bought for her this past Christmas. She had this thing about wearing winter clothes until the second week of April. It was one of her few superstitions. She was born during a rare Midwestern April blizzard and here we were now in early April snow flurries. Which reminded me that I'd have to go birthday shopping in the next few days. I stepped over, we kissed hello, and she went right into journalist mode: holding her phone in one hand and a reporter's notebook in the other. The phone, I knew from experience, was in Record mode.
'Tell me everything you know,' she said.
'I knew the guy, Allie,' I reminded her. 'Take it down a notch, OK?' She took a breath and kissed me again. 'I'm sorry,' she said. 'It's just that we've been under pressure from Anthony to break as many stories as we can before the traditional press.' Anthony was the money guy behind the blog/website. She paused. 'I am sorry. My first question should have been, how are you doing?'
She was learning, too. 'I'm OK. I was in my office finishing up some paperwork and MoJo called me. He asked if ...'
A few minutes later I was through with my story. This was the second time I'd told it to Allison, but now it was official because it was recorded. 'A real honest-to-God fucking arrow?'
'Yep.'
'The cops're still up there?' she asked.
'Yeah. And Royce told me to tell you no reporters are allowed up there. So no photos on this one, Allie.'
She laughed, reached into her bag, and pulled out a cube the size of a small Chinese food take-out box. She opened it and took out what at first looked to me like a children's toy. As she unfolded it, I realized what it was.
'When'd you get that?'
When it was completely unfolded she said, 'Just this week, actually. This is my second time using it.'
'Royce is not gonna like that.'
'Too bad for him. The city may own the school. They don't own the air rights.'
Her 'toy' was a video drone. It came with a remote control and was available to the public through those cool tech catalogues you get in the mail three times a week around the holidays. She turned it on with the control box and the drone flew up to the roof of the building. Allison handed me her phone. 'Hold this,' she said.
'Isn't there a rule about using these around schools?' I asked.
She ignored that and had already switched the phone to the drone app. We both watched as the camera/drone rose about twenty feet above the school: a good sixty feet in the air. She maneuvered it until it was over the crime scene and then took about a dozen photos. After a minute, she switched it to video mode. The picture was amazing. We saw the roof, MoJo's pigeon coop, and his body. At one point we saw Royce looking up as if he'd just spotted a UFO.
'Can you get a close-up of how unhappy he is?' I asked.
She ignored that and a minute later used the controls to bring her high-tech crime scene trespasser back home to her. We used her phone to review the images the drone had taken. Unbelievable, I thought. As much as I missed being a cop sometimes, I could not imagine being one nowadays when everything I did could be captured for the whole World Wide Web to see.
'Why do you bother leaving the apartment?' I asked. 'You could do your job from home these days.'
'But then I wouldn't get to interview insightful people like yourself, Ray.' She folded her drone back into a cube, put it in her bag, and slipped her notebook into her back pocket. She raised her phone to me. 'I have to file this. What're your plans?'
'The LineUp. I have to break the news to Edgar about MoJo and that's gonna take a few beers. Maybe more.'
'Mind if I tag along? I can write and upload this from anywhere. And before you say no, I promise not to ask Edgar anything about Maurice.'
'OK.'
'But if he offers ...'
'Don't push it, Allie.'
'Too soon to question the detective?'
'Way too soon.'
I turned to start the ten-minute walk to The LineUp. Allison took my hand and slipped her other one – the one holding her phone and newly acquired crime scene footage – into her pocket.
By the time we got to the bar, Edgar was already in his regular seat. In front of him were his laptop, a half-finished pint of Bass Ale and a small can of tomato juice. The look on his face was hard to read – it always was – but I had the feeling that I was late in breaking the news to him about his friend's death. Allison and I walked over to him and before sitting down, I said, 'You OK, Edgar?'
Without taking his eyes off his beer, he said, 'No. But you already know that, Ray.' Again, eyes still on the pint glass, he added, 'Hi, Allison.'
'Hi, Edgar.' She gently placed her hand on his shoulder. Besides me, Allison was one of the few people who could touch Edgar without his recoiling. It had taken her a few years to earn that level of trust. 'I am so sorry about your friend.'
'Thanks,' he said. 'I guess. Isn't that what people say? Thanks?' He touched his glass. 'I never understood that. Someone you're close to dies, someone else says sorry, and you say thanks. For what? And why say sorry? It's not like it's your fault. People say dumb things when other people die.'
'I guess you're right, Edgar,' I said. 'It's just what we do.'
'It's stupid.'
'I agree. Can we sit with you, or do you want to be left alone?'
'You can sit with me, Ray,' he said. 'You, too, Allison. I just don't know if I'm gonna talk all that much.'
I pulled out the stool next to him. 'That's up to you, man. Talk as little or as much as you like.' Those were words I'd never said to Edgar during our entire friendship. On most occasions, you could not shut him up.
'I'm gonna go in the back room and grab a table for a bit, Edgar,' she said. 'I've got a little more work to do before calling it a day.'
'OK,' he said.
'You want a drink?' I asked her.
(Continues…)
Excerpted from "The Hook"
by .
Copyright © 2019 Tim O'Mara.
Excerpted by permission of Severn House Publishers Limited.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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