Read an Excerpt

WOLVES IN SHEEP'S CLOTHING

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By ROBERT THORNHILL

Balboa Press

Copyright © 2012 Robert Thornhill
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4525-4670-4

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Chapter One

Crime in a large metropolitan area like Kansas City never actually stops, but it does ebb and flow like the ocean tides.

Thankfully, we had been experiencing a welcome lull in crimes of a more heinous nature.

Our days had been filled with the usual domestic disturbances, traffic stops and drug busts, but all that was about to change.

My name is Walter Williams and I'm a cop. Actually, I'm a sixty-eight year old cop and still technically a rookie.

I realize that might sound strange, but I started my career in law enforcement at the ripe old age of sixty- five.

In my three years on the force, due to some combination of stubbornness, blind luck and assistance from a Higher Power, Ox, my partner, and I have become the stuff of legends.

In fact, our arrest record is such that we have been dubbed 'The Dynamic Duo'.

The original dynamic duo was, of course, Batman and Robin. Another crime fighting duo that comes to mind is Sergeant Joe Friday and his partner, Officer Frank Smith of the famous Dragnet series. There are many more, but you get the picture.

On this particular day however, Ox and I looked like anything but the 'Dynamic Duo'.

We had been cruising midtown for an hour when I heard a distinct rumble. It had emanated from the depths of my partner's two hundred and twenty pound torso.

This, of course, was our cue to pull into the lot of the nearest Krispy Kreme.

Ox had purchased one of those chocolate covered long johns filled with creamy pudding. He had attacked the pastry with such enthusiasm that a big blob of pudding squirted out of the long john's rear end and was leaving a slimy trail down the front of his freshly washed uniform shirt.

Seeing my robust partner cussing and trying to balance his dripping pastry in one hand and wiping the errant blob with the other sent me into a laughing fit, which caused me to spill my hot coffee down the front of my pants.

It was at that moment that the call came from dispatch. "Car 54. What's your 20?"

We looked at each other.

Ox's hands were dripping pudding and mine were wet with coffee.

I grabbed the mike realizing that it would be easier to clean off the coffee than the pudding.

"Car 54. We're at 34th and Broadway."

"Proceed to the Westport Free Clinic in the 800 block of Westport Road. There's been a homicide and you're needed for crowd control."

"Car 54 en route."

I turned to Ox who was wiping the last remnants of the pudding from his shirt.

"Well, partner, it couldn't last forever."

We pulled up in front of the clinic and were met by Officer Dooley.

He took a look at Ox and quipped, "Did you hit the back of a garbage truck on the way over?"

Then he spotted the wet stain on my crotch. "What's the deal, old man? Did you run out of Depends?"

So much for the stuff of legends.

By this time Ox was running short on patience. "Cut the crap, Dooley. What have we got here?"

"Looks like a double homicide. The first patient of the day found the door open and the bodies of Dr. Martin Mitchell and his nurse, Violet Jenkins. They had both been shot. Looks like the place was ransacked. Some crack head probably looking for drugs."

A crowd had started to gather.

Ox grabbed the crime scene tape and started barking orders. "OK, let's get the scene secured. Move those people back away from the clinic. No one goes in or out."

More sirens came blaring around the corner. The Medical Examiner's van and an unmarked car arrived at the same time.

Detective Derek Blaylock stepped out of the sedan. He gave us a nod as he headed for the clinic entrance.

I heard him mutter as he passed. "It's gonna be a long day."

* * *

It was indeed a long day. It was after six before the CSI guys released the crime scene and almost seven by the time I pulled up in front of my three-story building on Armour Boulevard.

I had called Maggie to let her know that I would be late.

Maggie is my wife. Actually, we are still kind of newly weds. We've been married five months now.

It's been quite a transition for both of us. Neither of us had been married before so naturally, two old geezers, both set in their ways, had some serious adjusting to do.

I had remodeled the entire third floor of my building into a two bedroom, two-bath apartment with an office.

The second bathroom turned out to be a godsend. I'm not sure our marriage would have survived without it.

We discovered, after moving in, that Mother Nature seemed to call us both at the same time, so I often found myself sitting on throne #2.

I like long hot showers. It turns out that long hot showers fog the vanity mirror preventing Maggie from applying the various pastes and creams that women use. I now shower in bath #2.

I had a walk-in closet built in our new master bedroom. Maggie is a career girl and still very active in real estate. On moving day, her wardrobe filled every nook and cranny of the new closet. My stuff is in the closet of bedroom #2.

I can live with all of that knowing that when it's time to turn the lights out, we will both be tucked in together in bedroom #1.

But even that little bit of heaven required some adjustment.

After a lifetime of sleeping alone, it was quite different to wake up in the middle of the night and hear the deep rhythmic breathing of the person next to you.

I discovered early on that Maggie snores. Not a nasty obnoxious snore, but kind of cute little snorts.

When I lay there listening to her, it gives me a warm comforting feeling knowing my sweetie is there beside me.

One morning I mentioned the snoring thing.

"Maggie, did you know that you snore in your sleep?"

"Oh really?" she replied. "Did you know that you fart?"

I could only hope that if she's lying there awake listening to me pass gas, it gives her the same warm feeling.

Another area of adjustment was centered on my potty training.

Aim, for a guy, has always been a 'hit and miss' situation, so to speak. Normally, I'm a pretty fair marksman, but occasionally, particularly in the dead of night, I will aim Mr. Winky in one direction and he will shoot thirty degrees to the port or starboard. I've never quite figured out why. It's just one of those great mysteries of nature.

If Maggie happens to follow to soon after one of these misfires, I'll hear a "Eeeeewwwww! My foot!"

Then there's the lid thing.

When a guy has lived his entire adult life by himself, there's absolutely no reason to put the lid down. If you think about how many times you pee in a day and multiply that by your age, just think of how much time and energy you've saved by not putting the lid up and down every time.

But being a sensitive husband, I've tried my darndest to keep it down.

Daytime; no problem. Night time; that's another story.

It all depends on my level of consciousness. Fully awake; definitely down. Half awake; probably down. Barely awake; anybody's guess.

If I happen to hear Maggie slip out of bed and head for the potty, I lay there wondering, "Did I or didn't I?"

Most of the time, I did, but occasionally, a blood-curdling scream will emanate from the loo, "WAAAAAAALT!"

OK, so I'm not perfect, but I'm trying.

Let's just call it a work in progress.

The biggest adjustment, however, came one night after an evening of popcorn and movies on HBO.

We had watched Blackhawk Down, the war story of the Delta Force invasion in Somalia.

I was asleep the minute my head hit the pillow.

Sometime in the wee hours of the morning, I woke up freezing. There was a strong wind in my face and a loud WHAP, WHAP, WHAP, WHAP.

At first I thought I was dreaming and that I was part of that Delta Force invasion with choppers flying all around me.

Then I realized that WHAPing sound was the ceiling fan above our bed going full tilt.

I looked over at Maggie. She was spread eagled across the bed with her nightie pulled up to her chin.

"Maggie!" I screamed. "Are you all right?"

"Hot flash!" was all she could mutter.

It was at that moment that I made a grievous error.

"Hot flash? I thought women your age were past all that."

That night I learned a valuable lesson. Never mess with a woman in the throes of a hormonal surge.

I had seen movies of women in labor cursing their husbands for getting them pregnant.

I now firmly believe the same rules apply equally to both pre and post menopausal episodes.

Needless to say, all the adjusting has been worth it.

I love my feisty little Irish girl with all my heart and she is the joy of my life.

* * *

I climbed the stairs to our apartment as quietly as I could. After a long grueling day, the last thing I wanted was to arouse the other four tenants in my building.

My dad and the Professor live in the first floor apartments and Bernice and Jerry live in the second floor apartments.

I love them all but they all love to talk. I just wanted to get home, eat supper and relax with my Sweetie.

I thought I was home free but Jerry popped out of apartment before I could hit the third floor landing.

Jerry is seventy-three years young and has been with us about a year and a half now.

He has become a good friend but he has one really annoying trait: he firmly believes he is the second coming of Rodney Dangerfield.

He lives to tell jokes. Hence, the moniker we bestowed on him, Jerry The Joker.

He nearly drove us nuts with his banter until we turned him on to the amateur night at the local comedy club. Now we only get an occasional gag line when he wants to try out some new material.

"Hey, Walt!"

"Yes, Jerry."

"Ya got a minute?"

"Yes, Jerry."

"You're an old dude. You probably remember Buckwheat from the old Our Gang TV show."

"Yes, Jerry."

"Turns out that Buckwheat recently became a Muslim and changed his name to Kareem Of Wheat."

A pregnant pause.

"Go on."

"Well, Spanky and Alfalfa are really worried about him. They hope he doesn't become a cereal killer!"

"Goodnight, Jerry."

"Goodnight, Walt."

* * *

I was just reaching for the knob when the door opened and I saw my sweetie standing there with a frosty glass of Arbor Mist.

She handed me the glass and planted a big kiss on my cheek.

"I know you've had a rough day. Come on in and relax. Your dinner is on the TV tray in front of our easy chair.

Maggie is a wonder.

Most women, especially a woman our age, would have had a conniption fit if their significant other had announced that he wanted to be a cop.

Not Maggie.

She has supported me from the very beginning and, unfortunately, as an innocent bystander, has been dragged into more than one of my crime-fighting escapades.

In my three years on the force, she had been abducted by a psychotic real estate agent, a black drug gang, Hawaiian zealots and a religious nut.

Lesser women would have said, "Hasta la vista, baby" and been long gone.

As we sat, side-by-side in our two-seater recliner, she brought up the double murder.

"I was so sorry to hear about Dr. Mitchell and Violet. It's just all so senseless."

"Did you know them?"

"I've actually been treated by Dr. Mitchell."

"I thought you went to a female doctor."

"I do now. It's just a woman thing. Dr. Mitchell is - was - a very good doctor. Do you have any leads?"

"Not really. The detectives are thinking that it was some crack head looking for drugs."

Maggie was deep in thought. "That doesn't make any sense."

"Why not? It happens all the time."

"Because Dr. Mitchell was a holistic physician."

"A what?"

"Although he was a medical doctor, he rarely used prescription drugs. He was a firm believer that the human body was more than capable of healing itself if given a chance. His treatments included herbs and other natural substances. Anything he might have had in his office is available at any health food store. Why would anyone kill two people over stuff that can be bought anywhere?"

"That's a very good question. I'll certainly mention it to Detective Blaylock."

Later that night, I laid awake thinking about what Maggie had said. Maybe drugs weren't the motive after all.

My thoughts were interrupted by a few little snorts from Maggie's side of the bed.

I got that warm fuzzy feeling again, knowing she was there beside me.

I leaned over and kissed her cheek.

Then I rolled back over to my side, farted, and went right to sleep.

Chapter Two

The hawk-faced man sat quietly in the elegant executive office suite of Warren Wescott, Attorney-At-Law.

From his Corinthian leather chair he surveyed the array of photos displayed on the wall behind the massive desk. Wescott with Senator Griffin; Wescott shaking hands with the U.S. Attorney General; Wescott on the golf course with the chairman of the Food and Drug Administration: but most prominently displayed was Wescott with the President of the United States in the Oval Office.

There could be no question; the man was well connected.

He heard a flurry of activity in the reception area. The huge oak door swung open and Warren Wescott strode into the room.

He was a portly man, in his late 50's. His hair was dark with touches of gray at the temples. Drooping jowls that gave him the appearance of a bulldog accented his wide face.

He walked with the swagger of authority fostered by years spent in positions of power.

Without a word of salutation, he stood behind his desk and glared at the hawk-faced man.

"You failed! I sent you to do a job and you come back empty handed."

The man's first impulse was to grab the fat prick by the neck and squeeze the life out of him, but he had played this game before.

"I'm sorry, but the information you wanted was just not there. It seems that the clinical study is being held by a colleague of his."

"And just who might that be?"

"I'm working on it," he said holding up the doctor's laptop. "I'm convinced that he had been emailing the data with this computer. I'll know soon enough."

"And when you find out, I trust the result will be better the next time. Our clients in New York would be greatly disappointed if the findings of that study are made public."

"You can count on that, sir."

"In the meantime, we have another problem."

"What's that, sir?"

"Scarpelli."

"Wasn't Mr. Scarpelli the liaison between your firm and the New York clients?"

"That's correct. Apparently, the greedy bastard wasn't satisfied with two million a year, so he got mixed up with some Columbian thugs and was involved with drugs and prostitution.

"The DEA and FBI were both watching him and raided his house on Ward Parkway last week. They found a kilo of cocaine and two Columbian girls chained in his bedroom.

"They've seized all his assets including the Ward Parkway house."

The hawk-faced man set forward in his chair. "Are the authorities aware of his connection to your New York clients?"

"Not according to my sources in the Attorney General's office. But that's not our main concern at this point."

"Then what?"

"Two things. First, they've got Scarpelli by the balls and he's ready to sing. He's offered to testify against the Columbians and their U.S. contacts in exchange for witness protection. My sources think he's saving the New York stuff to negotiate a better deal.

"Second, Scarpelli has some - uhhh - very sensitive files relating to our New York clients hidden somewhere in that Ward Parkway house. Thankfully, they weren't found during the raid."

"Do you want me to locate those documents?"

"Not possible at this time. The FBI has had the house under surveillance since the raid. You couldn't get in without being seen.

"But we do have a job for you."

The hawk-faced man smiled. "Of course. Anything I can do to help."

"If Scarpelli cuts his deal with WITSEC and disappears, we're screwed and so are our New York clients. Scarpelli has to be eliminated."

Westcott leaned across the big desk and handed the man a folded slip of paper.

"Scarpelli's being held in solitary at the Federal Penitentiary in Leavenworth, Kansas. Contact the man I've given you on that paper. He can make Scarpelli disappear."

He took the slip of paper and carefully tucked it in his pocket. "Consider it done."

(Continues...)

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Excerpted from WOLVES IN SHEEP'S CLOTHING by ROBERT THORNHILL Copyright © 2012 by Robert Thornhill. Excerpted by permission of Balboa Press. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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