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Blood Perfect A Joe Turner Mystery Book 1

Blood Perfect (A Joe Turner Mystery Book 1), page 1

 

Blood Perfect (A Joe Turner Mystery Book 1)
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Blood Perfect (A Joe Turner Mystery Book 1)


  Blood Perfect

  A Joe Turner Mystery

  T.L. Bequette

  © Copyright T.L. Bequette 2022

  Black Rose Writing | Texas

  © 2022 by T.L. Bequette

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publishers, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review to be printed in a newspaper, magazine or journal.

  The final approval for this literary material is granted by the author.

  First digital version

  All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Print ISBN: 978-1-68433-996-9

  PUBLISHED BY BLACK ROSE WRITING

  www.blackrosewriting.com

  Print edition produced in the United States of America

  Praise for

  BLOOD PERFECT

  “T. L. Bequette masterfully builds his series, creating growth in his characters through each novel. Combining supreme character building and a fast-paced mystery… readers won’t be able to set the book down until the final page. In short, Joe Turner is well on the way to becoming a fixture in contemporary mystery fiction.”

  –Chanticleer Book Reviews

  “After his rousing debut, Good Lookin’ (2021), Bequette returns with a tale that solidifies Turner as a charmingly reliable champion of the innocent.”

  –Kirkus Reviews

  “5/5 Stars. A fantastic read for fans of courtroom drama, light detective work, and endings with a twist… that will keep you interested from cover to cover.”

  –San Francisco Book Reviews

  “Fascinating... entices the reader on the opening page to dive into a stunningly readable and exciting effort. I am waiting impatiently for the next book in what I hope is a long series.”

  –Mark Hewitt, award-winning author

  of the Duncan Hunter Thriller series

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Praise

  PROLOGUE

  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

  CHAPTER 62

  CHAPTER 63

  CHAPTER 64

  CHAPTER 65

  CHAPTER 66

  CHAPTER 67

  CHAPTER 68

  CHAPTER 69

  CHAPTER 70

  CHAPTER 71

  CHAPTER 72

  CHAPTER 73

  CHAPTER 74

  CHAPTER 75

  CHAPTER 76

  CHAPTER 77

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR

  ROSEVINE

  PROLOGUE

  Closing argument had always been my favorite part of a jury trial. Some attorneys relished the cross examination of a hostile witness, but I found it unpleasantly confrontational. Direct examination of my client was fraught with disaster—like the time my client accused of drunk driving began slurring his words on the stand.

  But closing arguments were just me, selling my case to the jury. The stifling rules about mischaracterizing evidence were put on hold in the closing, and it was always the most relaxing and enjoyable part of the trial.

  All of this made what was happening to me at this very second quite unthinkable.

  My closing had begun well enough. I’d spoken about the prosecution’s burden of proof and was making good eye contact with some of the jurors. I was commenting on my client’s upbringing in Oakland and his various means of employment when it happened.

  Until that instant, so much of the case had baffled me and I’d had the distinct impression that there were forces at work unknown to me. But just then, my own words jostled the jigsaw puzzle in my brain, and a stray piece settled perfectly into place. The puzzle now complete, its image shook me to my core.

  I stopped in mid-sentence and felt a wave of heat flush my face. Reaching for the railing of the jury box, the floor began to undulate under my feet. I turned toward the judge to request a recess, but all at once the courtroom’s lights rapidly dimmed.

  And now I lay face down in the courtroom. I feel hands patting my shoulders and taste blood on my bottom lip.

  CHAPTER 1

  Four Days Ago, August 25, 2021

  “Who is Roger Moore?” Yellow teeth crunched an apple slice as he settled back into a cracked leather sofa. A brown tweed sweater sagged from his arms. “Who fucking knows,” he sighed, loosening his belt a notch.

  He stared at the shiny flat screen on the wall of his cramped apartment, the television a gift from his granddaughter. She acted like she had given him a rocket ship. He didn’t like the glare.

  At sixty-five, he had taken the job as caretaker of this crap hotel called the Islander. His brother-in-law had made it seem more like an ocean front resort than a seedy flophouse in west Oakland. He snorted at the absurdity.

  “Who is Joe DiMaggio.” He smiled at the memory, his bald spot cooled by the worn leather. “Joe D.,” he sighed. “That wop could hit.” A toe pried off one shoe, then the other, the leather loafers falling to an oval rug he had purchased on a reservation in Arizona.

  “Who is, uh. . . Neil Armstrong. . .John Glenn. Okay Alex, so fucking smart with the answers in your hands.”

  He exhaled and shifted his shoulders, melding into his spot. Today had been the first day of the month and that made it his least favorite. Everyone had an excuse. I got laid off, I got robbed, my mom died. One tenant’s mom died every three or four months.

  But no matter how lame the excuse, he was the bad guy. If you can’t pay the freight, just say so, or better yet, move out. But stop with the lying excuses. Try working a day in your miserable life. And no, I’m not going to lend you fifty bucks so you can buy dope, and no, you can’t use the office phone.

  He wouldn’t be in this shithole much longer though, thanks to his brother’s half-wit son, Denny. The kid couldn’t be trusted behind the front desk, but damn if he couldn’t play the ponies. It was like that retard in the movie who could count cards. Kid spent every waking hour down at the stables, shoveling shit, feeding them carrots and placing bets. Claims he conversates with the horses somehow. Loopy fucker can think what he wants if he keeps bringing in seven hundred a week. The kid don’t even care that he keeps the winnings. Give him a twenty once in a while and keep him in carrots and he’s happy as a pig in slop.

  CHAPTER 2

  —Joe,

  Sorry I haven’t been in touch in a while (if you consider a decade a while.) I know it’s strange to email you out of the blue, but a family friend who lives in Oakland needs a good criminal defense attorney (some m
inor matter of an attempted murder), and the last I heard, you defended criminals, I mean, defended the rights of the accused. Anyway, I found your website and tracked you down. The accused is a gardener my mom knows. His girlfriend might call. If so, blame me.

  How are you? Married? Children? Time in prison? I’d love to hear from you. I’m a real estate agent in LA and have a beautiful six-year old daughter, Isabella. We’re currently arguing about the bath. Gotta go.

  Amanda Kensey—

  “Morning, Turner. So how can you possibly top your titanic jaywalking victory?”

  “The Monert case, I guess.” I gestured toward an accordion file on my desk.

  “Oh wow. You’re actually going to try that case?”

  “That’s what I do, Andy. I try cases. You know, in a courtroom. You’ve probably seen one on television?”

  “Isn’t this the guy who was found passed out at the wheel? Let me guess, it was prescription meds for his ailing back?” My partner, Andrew Kopp, had strolled into our modest third-floor office on the outskirts of downtown Oakland to pick up his mail and offer his usual brand of encouragement. He was a personal injury lawyer, and we spent most of our time in the office denigrating each other’s practices.

  “He was sleeping, Andy. Can’t a guy get some shut-eye on the side of the road without being arrested? And more importantly, he’s a truck driver, so if he pleads out, he’s fired.”

  “Then by all means, keep him on the streets behind the wheel of a giant truck. No wonder you drink so much,” he said, eyeing empties overflowing our recycling bin. “You need it to live with yourself,” a parting shot, as he headed for the elevator.

  “Beats heavy lifting,” I called after him.

  Andy had interrupted my reply to Amanda’s email, which had interrupted important fantasy baseball research, which had interrupted my preparation for a singularly boring drunk driving trial I had no chance to win.

  Amanda was my one that got away. At least that’s the way I saw it, my small mind conveniently disregarding the fact that we’d never dated. Not to mention she had been out of my league, both in appearance and college social standing. A late bloomer in every respect, pimples had dotted my boyish face throughout most of college. I was 6’2” like my dad, and while I had inherited his athletic frame and strong jaw, a lack of confidence made me slouch. At least, that’s what my mom told me well into my twenties. I’d never even set foot in the leafy sorority neighborhood Amanda called home. My friends and I referred to it as “the land of the beautiful people.”

  I also saw no reason to believe that she knew how I felt. We’d been friends since meeting in our freshman seminar class at Cal, and I recalled times spent with her like yesterday. I remember the first moment I became smitten. We had made plans to hang out one afternoon. When I asked what she wanted to do, she’d shrugged her shoulders and deadpanned, “I don’t know. Get drunk, throw rocks?” This was the girl for me.

  We passed an entire Friday afternoon on the roof of my dorm, tormenting passersby and people watching. We’d kissed passionately once our senior year, both drunk on Sangria. When she fell asleep I quietly left her room. When she didn’t mention it the next time I saw her, I wondered if she remembered it at all.

  Exotic looking, with thick black hair and mocha skin, she came from a family that didn’t fit the Cal mold—mixed race, a single mom, a brother in rehab. In a world of over-stressed students, I admired her impetuous free spirit. She once kidnapped me to go bowling during finals and it was probably the most fun I’d had in my life. Also, our senses of humor matched, making for immediate chemistry. (Our senses of humor had actually made us fast friends, but I preferred to focus on the chemistry.)

  Chronically self-conscious, I admired her self-assuredness and respected her strength. Despite these fond memories, my feelings remained unspoken, fearing a version of the inevitable “let’s-not-ruin-our-friendship” rejection.

  —Amanda,

  It was great to hear from you, although I’m somewhat embarrassed you found my lame website. Just what I always wanted to be known for: drugs, domestic violence, and sex crimes. I’d appreciate any ideas on the site. I’m contemplating a new slogan, “Setting America Free, One Felon at a Time.”

  I heard through the grapevine how your marriage turned out. Very sorry. So the guy actually left you while you were pregnant? Isn’t that against some sort of marital code or something? Good God.

  I’m sure you’re stunned I’m still single, what with my job as defender of felons being such a babe magnet.

  Thanks again for emailing me and sending along the referral. I’ll keep you apprised of the fate of the gardener.

  JT—

  CHAPTER 3

  It usually comes after I have wine with dinner or eat red meat. Sometimes when I sleep, or like today when I’m quiet and alone in my office. Generally, I sense it coming on, slowly gathering around the edges of my mind. I can keep it there a while by filling my brain with other thoughts. Lots of little realities work best. But that’s tiring and I can still feel it looming there. It always comes in the end, so it’s probably better to just let it happen.

  I am following her inside, my view through the lens of a jerky home movie projector. Her heels tap a familiar cadence on cement, then hardwood, a comforting orange and green dress pattern in view above, tan shiny calves just below eye level.

  Then all hell breaks loose.

  The screen goes black for a moment as a soundtrack of deep, distorted groans pounds my ears. She screams my father’s name, rushing to his side and the screen is lit again, her slender, flailing arms and panicked face framed by the warm yellow walls of my childhood kitchen. She moves as if on ice, slipping to the linoleum, confused and floundering. Jagged screams pierce my ears, then softer heaves of sorrow as the lens begins to streak. She slips to the floor again, then rises to meet my eyes, the projector frozen in a close-up of her terrified helplessness.

  Then I am warm in her arms, her soft scented hands blocking my view, moving quickly down a hallway. My face burrows into her overcoat and its familiar smell. I press my face into its textured fabric and squeeze my eyes tight, tunneling away from the horror of the kitchen, clinging to my gently quivering mother.

  I was twelve when my dad was murdered. I don’t remember when I stopped trying to remember his death, but it was around the time the flashbacks began.

  I remember missing my bed when we stayed in a hotel afterwards and the loneliness of moving into a smaller house across town. I recall hating the funeral and wondering how hearing stories about him while wearing uncomfortable clothes was supposed to be comforting. Mainly, I remember the gaping void in my life that followed. As for the murder, though, all that was left was the chaotic and cryptic home movie that showed details without perspective.

  Still breathing heavily, I reclined at my desk, feeling the familiar nauseous regret. I wiped my clammy brow and gazed around the room, searching for my mind’s escape.

  My eyes fell on an empty beer bottle resting in its sweat ring on my white oak desk. I smiled, recalling the mock celebration with Andy following the morning’s victory in a jaywalking case. I was certain the judge’s sole concern was reaching a verdict before lunch time. I gathered myself for a walk to the office kitchen and another beer. I had hoped to work late, but knew I’d be worthless now.

  After a time, I managed to refocus and complete some very important fantasy baseball research before heading for my train ride home. It was Friday, after all. My favorite sport was still on my mind as I waited for the elevator.

  When I was eleven, I convinced my parents to send me away to baseball camp where I became friends with a boy named Ray Borges, who had the gift of spitting very accurately. This fascinated me to no end since I loved everything about baseball, not the least of all, spitting. Soon, I could place a soda bottle on the ground and spit into its narrow neck.

 
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