Quandary: A Detective Series, page 1
QUANDARY
DETECTIVE CARLA MCBRIDE CHRONICLES
BOOK 4
NICK LEWIS
Quandary
Kindle Edition
Copyright © 2023 (As Revised) Nick Lewis
Rough Edges Press
An Imprint of Wolfpack Publishing
9850 S. Maryland Parkway, Suite A-5 #323
Las Vegas, Nevada 89183
roughedgespress.com
This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events, places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced by any means without the prior written consent of the publisher, other than brief quotes for reviews.
eBook ISBN 978-1-68549-242-7
Paperback ISBN 978-1-68549-243-4
CONTENTS
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Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Acknowledgments
A Look at Book Five:
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About the Author
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QUANDARY
CHAPTER 1
It wasn’t Red Brewster’s first rodeo. For the past twenty years, he’d called the Kentucky High School baseball championship game. In his stellar sportscasting career, his play-by-play voice was iconic. Before he continued his broadcast, he glanced at the on-deck circle as Philip Devaney warmed up. Red’s pulse and respiration ramped up; he knew what Devaney was feeling. He had experienced that same nerve-racking tension thirty years ago as a Stallion. Like the professional that he was, he took a deep breath and continued his final play-by-play soliloquy.
“Alright, fans, here we go. The Stallions are down to their last out. The state championship trophy hangs in the balance. With the bases loaded and behind by three runs, it’s a do-or-die moment for the Stallions in the bottom of the seventh inning. It all comes down to Devaney, the Stallions’ all-star first baseman. Can he keep this rally going? Well, folks, we’re about to find out.”
Relief pitcher Roy Gullett, for the Altmont Tomcats, had a ninety-five mile-per-hour fastball. He threw nothing but heat, and everyone knew that. However, his wildness put him in this precarious position. After a visit from his coach, he’d settled down and struck out the next two batters. It had all come down to Gullett’s flame-throwing fastball against Devaney’s quick and keen, eye-hand coordination. A lot was at stake as Red’s iconic voice continued the broadcast.
“Devaney steps into the batter’s box as deep as he could, waiting for the pitch. Gullett takes his wind-up and flings the ball toward home plate. Devaney takes the pitch, strike-one the umpire signaled. Folks, I can’t believe he took that waist-high pitch right over the plate. I wonder if Devaney is playing a game of cat and mouse? We’ll soon find out.”
Devaney stepped out of the batter’s box to calm his nerves. He knew a state championship was riding on the last at-bat of his high school career. The Stallions had never won a state championship in any sport. This is the closest any athletic team had ever come. Everything was riding on his shoulders. After Devaney took a deep breath, he once again settled in the batter’s box as far back as he could. He knew what was coming; Gullett threw nothing but heat. At ninety-five miles per hour, he didn’t need an off-speed pitch to keep batters off-balance. His wildness took care of that.
Gullett nodded at the catcher, then took his wind-up and smoked Devaney again. Strike two, the umpire screamed. Devaney signaled timeout and stood outside the batter’s box to calm himself. After a deep breath, he took his stance deep in the batter’s box once more. He was now ready for another fastball and a chance at a hero status. With Gullett in his stance, he nodded at the catcher once more. While waiting on the pitch, Devaney focused on Gullett’s right hand as he went into his wind-up. There was nothing different in his motion or delivery, and Devaney guessed fastball all the way.
As Devaney expected, Gullett delivered more smoke toward home plate. Devaney timed the waist-high fastball perfectly, and a thunderous crack filled the stadium. The ball sailed high and deep toward left field. As Devaney approached the first base bag, he watched the ball soaring toward the fence. After rounding first base, the left fielder leaped high as the ball sailed over his outstretched glove. As Devaney crossed home plate, pandemonium erupted on the field and in the stands. He had done it, a grand slam to bring home the first state championship to Oakmont High School.
Although Red was supposed to be impartial, he couldn’t control the emotions flooding his soul. Once a Stallion, always a Stallion, he believed. With his voice cracking with emotion, he continued his broadcast.
“There you have it, folks. The Stallions have captured the Kentucky High School Baseball Championship in grand, heroic fashion. What a game, and one for the record books. Go Stallions. Congratulations, state champs. Stay tuned for post-game interviews after these brief messages.”
As the celebration continued in the stadium, Red made his way down to the field to interview Stallions’ head coach Gabe Cook and the game’s most valuable player, Devaney. Finally, catching up with them in front of the Stallions’ dugout, he began his interview.
“Coach, congratulations. What is going through your mind right now?”
“Well, Red, it’s unexplainable what I’m feeling. These kids worked hard all year, and they deserve all the credit, especially Devaney. I couldn’t be prouder of him.”
“Philip, congratulations on being named the tournament’s most valuable player.”
“Thank you, Mr. Brewster, but I owe it to Coach Cook and all the guys. It was a team effort.”
“Of course, tell me about your last at-bat. Were you trying to out psyche Gullett?”
“Everyone knew what was coming—nothing but fastballs. He felt he had my number as he struck me out in my first two at-bats. I knew he was cocky and felt he could just blow it past me again. So, yeah, by taking the first two pitches, I wanted him to think he had my number again. So, yeah, I played a game of cat and mouse waiting for that right pitch, and he threw it.”
“Well, I guess it all worked out. What’s next for you guys?”
“What else? It’s time to celebrate with the Diamond Brotherhood at my father’s cabin. Umm, here he comes now. Thanks, go Stallions!”
As Philip hugged his dad, Red continued interviewing Coach Cook. As chants of “We are the Champions” filled the stadium, members of the Diamond Brotherhood gathered around Philip’s father as he explained the ground rules for the celebration.
“Listen up, everyone, those are the rules. I’ll be checking in on you from time to time, so behave, and no girls, and I mean that. Once you are there, no one leaves. Does everyone understand that?”
The Diamond Brotherhood nodded in unison.
“Philip, one last thing. Everyone’s car keys go into the safe in my bedroom, okay?” Philip nodded. “Great, I’m proud of every one of you. You each have your whole life in front of you. Be safe and make smart decisions, okay?”
After everyone nodded, each player dispersed, heading toward the lake house. It wasn’t long after arriving that the celebration began. Chants of “We are the Champions” rocked the cabin as the beer started flowing. A couple of hours later, a knock on the door startled Philip. He parted the window curtains, and a lustful grin grabbed his soul.
CHAPTER 2
THIRTY-FIVE YEARS LATER
With the lowest crime rate in the state, Oakmont was growing by leaps and bounds. Its proximity to Lexington, Louisville, Cincinnati, and
Mayor Lester James and City Commissioners Bryan A. Walters, Rich Masterson, Barry Stewart, and Philip Devaney were on cloud nine about Oakmont’s past accomplishments and rosy future. However, that all changed when the senseless murders of five citizens two years ago shook the city to its core. Although the mayor and city commissioners continued to relish in Oakmont’s success, the recent violent crime wave began to overshadow their leadership. Mayor James had taken most of the heat for the city’s fall from grace as one of Kentucky’s safest communities. His opponent used the rise in crime to his advantage, making the mayor’s re-election bid closer than any before.
Furthermore, the city commissioners’ race was also the tightest in recent years because of this influx in violent crimes. In the primary election, Masterson, Stewart, and Devaney finished in the top three. Wilson Bortel, CEO of Freedom National Bank, who finished fourth, and Walters, CEO of Oakmont Trust and Savings, who finished fifth, would battle it out for the fourth seat on the city commission.
Bortel’s platform focused on the violent crime wave, while Walters focused on Bortel’s unimpressive civic record. They often clashed publicly throughout the campaign because their banks were fierce competitors. In the final forum before the general election, Walters accused him of allegedly buying votes. However, Bortel vehemently denied such allegations. Although Walters finished his campaign with as much mud-slinging rhetoric as possible, winning another term was in jeopardy.
With the campaign finally over, Commissioner Walters looked forward to election day. However, this one was painfully different. In the past, he awoke beside his gorgeous wife, Cynthia, excited and confident of being victorious. Having breakfast with her was always an essential part of that winning tradition. Unfortunately, on this election day, she was not by his side when the sun’s warmth flowed through the bedroom windows. She had fought a courageous battle against breast cancer and lost. Although he wanted to win another term, without her by his side would make it a bittersweet victory. On the other hand, losing would devastate him as she could not comfort the heartbreak and emptiness in his soul.
With his mundane and lonely breakfast over, Walters arrived at the bank at his usual time. Over the past fourteen years, his election day routine consisted of no appointments or meetings, a long lunch with Cynthia, and voting together. However, today, after a few morning appointments, his lunch was short, and the ride to his voting precinct was lonely and full of bittersweet memories.
After voting, he turned left onto Tate’s Creek Parkway, taking the long way back to downtown. He was in no hurry to experience the loneliness inside his office. While passing the next intersection, a white sedan turned right, keeping a safe distance behind him. After traveling a half-mile, a traffic light was just ahead. With it green, he sped up, hoping to get through it. However, as it turned yellow, he hit the brakes. As he waited, the white sedan pulled up behind him.
As he did routinely, he checked his rearview mirror. For some strange reason, seeing the white sedan and the two men inside sent his pulse racing. He never looked good in a beard, he thought, but the driver of the white sedan wore one well. Returning his gaze to the traffic signal, it had turned green. The driver of the white sedan, being an impatient jerk, laid on the horn. Disgusted and fuming, Walters shot him the bird and turned left.
While glancing in the rearview mirror, the car was gaining on him. At the next traffic signal, the white sedan pulled up beside him. After the passenger door window lowered, profanities irked him. As the light turned green, the white car sped away. Walters slowly pulled away, wondering why so many people were impatient assholes these days.
After returning to the bank, he passed the afternoon away until it was time to visit McGruder’s for what he hoped would be another victorious celebration. Unfortunately, if it were a victorious one, it would be lonely and bittersweet. Although his son would join him, hopefully, for a celebratory beer this evening, it wasn’t the same without Cynthia at his side.
Rising from his desk, he walked over to the doorway, watching customers move about without a care in the world. Suddenly, two men entered the front entrance and approached one of the tellers. Recognizing them as the two men in the white sedan, he quickly closed the door and returned to his desk. He promptly brought up the security cameras on his monitor and watched the two men conduct their business. Given his uncomfortable encounter with them earlier, paranoia crept into his fragile psyche.
The two men seemed harmless and left the bank after conducting their business. Wanting to make sure they were gone, he opened his door and walked to a window with a view of the parking lot. With the white sedan gone, he breathed a sigh of relief. He then walked over to the teller and asked to see the check. He didn’t know a man named Parker Jarrell and hoped he would never have an encounter with such an impatient jerk ever again.
As his banking team left for the day, he walked to the front door and secured it. After returning to his office, loneliness grabbed his soul. Opening one of the doors on the credenza, he pulled out a bottle of his favorite bourbon, Blanton’s. He grabbed his favorite Waterford crystal rock glass, and within seconds, two fingers’ worth of the amber liquid called his name. Sniffing its alluring aroma, he savored its smoothness as it went down. Closing the door, he sat at his desk, wondering how he would handle tonight’s outcome, win or lose, without Cynthia by his side.
CHAPTER 3
After finishing his Blanton’s, Commissioner Walters stopped at the county clerk’s office. The early returns were not promising. He was not one to hang around the courthouse waiting for the final results. His celebration venue had always been McGruder’s, and tonight would be no different. However, this evening, he would go it alone for the first time in his life. Even though Cynthia wouldn’t be there in a physical sense, he firmly believed her spirit would join him at the bar.
With the television centered directly above the bar, he kept track of each race, especially his. The latest scroll at the bottom of the screen had Bortel leading him by seventy-three votes. It had been a hard-fought and nasty race, and Walters believed he had done his best. With only two precincts left to report, he still held out hope that the citizens would allow him to represent them for another two years.
As he swirled his glass around, melting ice clinked against the sides. Downing the diluted remains of Blanton’s, he held up the glass towards Sam. She knew what that meant. Within minutes, another Blanton’s on the rocks called his name. After a long sip, he stared at the empty stool to his right. As bittersweet memories of Cynthia flooded his mind, a lump in his throat grabbed his soul. While wiping a few tears from his eyes, his focus returned to his drink.
Blanton’s had been his faithful companion most every day, making his loneliness temporarily manageable. After Cynthia died, his job and the city commission consumed his daily regimen. In the evening, Blanton’s provided him the comfort to make it through to the next day until he’d do it all over again.
Although Cynthia had repeatedly told him to find true love after she was gone, he couldn’t bring himself to pursue any serious relationship. However, he still had manly needs, and one-nighters quenched his sexual appetite with no strings attached. That was the perfect antidote for his sexual cravings until that special woman came along, capturing his heart as Cynthia did many years ago.
While glancing at the screen, the fat lady had sung on his reign in city government. Losing by seventeen votes, he knew a re-count would automatically occur. However, he didn’t hold much hope for it to swing the results in his favor.
Taking another long swallow of Blanton’s, he placed it on the bar and turned to his right once more. The emptiness was devastating. The glass of Chardonnay he bought earlier had grown warm and stale. Glancing at the television screen, Sam knew it was his last hurrah. With his glass empty again, Blanton’s called his name once more. Within seconds, its numbing power did its best to soothe his heartbreak. Sam wasn’t concerned about over-serving him because she could always call his son to rescue him. Lately, she had done that a lot, and it concerned her. While handing him the drink, her smile did its best to ease his sorrow and disappointment.
