Enjoy an Excerpt
A Brush with Death
from
Chapter One
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Special Agent Marcus Anderson ducked under the crime scene barrier tape and entered the Society Hill residence of Mickey D’Amico, better known in the criminal underworld as Mickey the Fish. A man who’d cultivated an impressive network of criminal associations through his work as a fence, and whose body lay face down on the kitchen tile, surrounded by a puddle of blood, a bullet wound in the back of his head.
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The lead investigator, Eric Erickson, stood in the center of the room, staring at a message written across the wall in something dark and red. Mickey the Rat.
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Marcus joined the other agent and peered at the epitaph. “Blood?”
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“Looks like it, but forensics will know for sure.” Erickson inhaled a breath that somehow added inches to his already imposing stature. At six-foot-one, many considered Marcus to be a tall man, but even he’d describe the other agent as towering.​
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Erickson shook his head, his expression tight. “I’ve spent months cultivating this relationship. It’s a shame to see it end like this.”
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Marcus rubbed the back of his neck. “Where does this put your investigation?”
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Erickson shrugged. “The guy had dealings with almost every illicit organization on the East Coast. Could’ve delivered a lot of information.”
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“Guess that’s exactly what someone was worried about.” Marcus stared at the red scrawl for a beat, then let his gaze wander the room. He tilted his chin at the body. “You sure it’s him?”
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The corpse in the kitchen wore athletic shorts and a T-shirt.
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“We haven’t flipped him over yet. Might be hard to make a positive ID given the hole in his face. But yeah. I’m sure. Barracuda tattoo on his forearm. Webbed toes. Can’t be many men fitting that description.”
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Right. Webbed feet. The reason for the moniker Mickey the Fish.
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“Saw the medical examiner van outside. When are they getting in to do their thing?”
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“Soon. I wanted to look around the place first. Seems Mickey has done well for himself.”
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Indeed, the townhouse was lavish. From an expensive kitchen remodel to the ritzy light fixtures and furniture. And then there was the artwork. Paintings and sculptures everywhere.
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Marcus’s gaze snagged on one piece in particular. Filling the space between two windows, the large image stretched from floor to ceiling and featured a series of evenly spaced, perfectly aligned dots. He stared, fascinated by the way patterns emerged and shifted in the colors, almost like one of those hidden-picture posters.
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“You think all these are real?” Marcus had a hard time believing a guy like Mickey D’Amico had a penchant for art, but he had an equally difficult time thinking the man would bother to display something that wasn’t genuine.
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“Probably. And if so, where did they come from?”
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It wouldn’t be difficult for a fence like Mickey to get his hands on stolen merchandise, but for him to have amassed a collection like this, something else had to be going on.
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“You get to figure that out without me.” At least until he got back from vacation.
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The other agent’s brows drew together. “When does your leave start?”
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“Technically? Already did, but I got the call from headquarters and thought I’d see if I could help.”
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“Appreciate it, but I think we’ve got it covered. I need to let forensics and the medical examiner in. After that, I’ll assemble a team to search the premises.”
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“And the artwork?”
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“That’ll be cataloged and inventoried.” Erickson let out a loud sigh. “Philadelphia PD can handle the rest.”
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“Sounds like everything is under control. Guess I’ll see you in three weeks.”
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“Three weeks? You sure you’ll be able to forget about work for that long?”
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“You’re one to talk.” Erickson was well known for his near-obsessive fixation on the Alario crime syndicate. “I’m driving to Florida tomorrow. My mom moved into a retirement community, and I want to check on her, make sure she’s okay. She’s been all alone since my dad died.”
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“What about friends?”
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Marcus shrugged. “She goes to activities at the senior center, and I’ve got an aunt who lives in the same complex, but she’s in Seattle for the summer. I’ll feel better if I can see how Mom’s doing with my own eyes.”
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“Good luck. Hope it goes well.”
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Marcus grasped the other agent’s outstretched hand. “I’m expecting a lot of sitting around Mom’s place watching Wheel of Fortune.”
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Erickson laughed, then turned his attention back to the crime scene. A twang of regret vibrated in Marcus’s chest. He hated to leave at the start of an investigation, but his mom was alone, and he needed to make sure she was okay.
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***
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After a day and a half of driving, Marcus pulled up to the gate outside the fifty-five and older community in Fort Lauderdale, Florida, and rolled down his window. A guard with a clipboard stepped out of the little hut in the middle of the road.
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“Who are you visiting?” The guy looked at least a decade older than Mom. His name tag said Mort.
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“Violet Anderson.”
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The guard looked at his list. “Is she expecting you?”
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“Nope. I’m her son.”
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Mort turned back toward the gate. “Let me call and tell her you’re here.”
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“Is that necessary? I was hoping to surprise her.”
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“I’m sorry, sir. Can’t let you in without the resident’s permission.”
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Marcus flashed a smile he hoped conveyed respect, reached into the center console, and pulled out his wallet. “Maybe you could bend the rules this one time?” Feeling like a total douche, he let his wallet fall open to reveal his FBI identification.
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Mort took a step closer. “You with the Bureau?”
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“Left Philly yesterday morning. Mom doesn’t know I’m coming.”
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“Well…” Mort took a deep breath. “I suppose it wouldn’t hurt, seeing as you’re law enforcement.” He leaned into the guard shack and pressed a button to open the gate. “Welcome to Riviera Villages.”
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Marcus waved. “Thanks. Appreciate it.”
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The GPS on Marcus’s phone navigated him along a winding road lined with tall, shady trees. Everything in this neighborhood looked identical. Small one-story homes, barrel-tile roofs, white stucco facades. He found his mom’s bungalow without issue, and since there was no curb, he parked his truck on the strip of grass between the sidewalk and the narrow street.
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Mom had a tiny front yard decorated with flowering bushes and several small, spiky plants he guessed were pineapples. He smiled. She’d been so excited when she discovered she could use the top of a pineapple to grow more pineapples. After a glance in the visor mirror and a half-hearted attempt to tame his messy hair, he reached for his hat, then discarded the idea. Mom wouldn’t care what his hair looked like. She’d just be happy to see him. He’d waited too long to make this trip to check on her.
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He got out of the truck and made his way to the front door, glancing at the numbers screwed to the stucco. He pressed the buzzer. Nothing. He pressed it again.
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“Yeah, yeah. I’m old. Give me a minute to get there.”
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The voice was male. Marcus glanced at the house numbers again, then at the street sign on the corner. Six-two-one Redfish Way.
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The door flew open, and an older, but fit-looking man in striped boxer shorts, a sleeveless undershirt, and black socks stood in the entryway. “Yeah? What do you want?”
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What the—? Too stunned to respond, Marcus stared.
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“Well? You could hardly wait for me to get here, and now you’ve got nothing to say? Spit it out.”
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Marcus was pretty sure his mouth was moving, but no sound emerged. Jesus, he was an FBI agent. Time to pull his shit together. Finally, he rasped two words. “Violet Anderson.”
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The man adjusted his glasses and stepped closer. His gaze slid from Marcus’s head to his feet, then back up again. “You’re a big fella, aren’t you? Hard to get a feel for size from a photo on the back of the piano.”
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A hard lump rose in Marcus’s throat, and even as he swallowed it, his brain refused to process what was happening. The man turned around and yelled into the depths of the house. “Hey Vi, your son is here.”
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“Stop it, Freddy. That’s not funny. My son is hundreds of miles away.”
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Just two days ago, Marcus had been at the scene of an execution with blood and brain matter splattered across the kitchen floor. That was nothing compared to the horror that filled his gut as his mother shuffled toward the door from the back of the house, wearing nothing but a bathrobe in the middle of the afternoon. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to block the image now seared onto the insides of his eyelids.
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With a deliberate, conscious effort, he unclenched his fists and opened his eyes.
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When his mom saw him, delight lit up her face, and despite his heart pounding in his ears, he could still hear her when she exclaimed, “My baby!”
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“Hi, Mom.” He gave her a tight hug.
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She stepped back to look at him. “What are you doing here? Why didn’t you tell me you were coming?”
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“I wanted it to be a surprise.” And it was. Just not in the way he’d hoped.
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“I guess you've already met Freddy.” His mom motioned to the underwear-wearing man now standing behind her.
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“Hiya.” Freddy waved.
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“Hello.” What grown man went by a name like Freddy?
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His mom tugged on his arm. “Come in.” She shooed Freddy toward the back of the house. “Go put some clothes on so I can introduce you properly.”
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Tempted to tell his mom to do the same, Marcus pressed his mouth shut and suppressed a shudder as he stepped inside. The room was small and cluttered with furniture, photographs, knickknacks, and mementos, most of which he recognized. What he didn’t recognize was the woman standing before him telling a strange man to get dressed.
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Marcus couldn’t hold it in for another second. “Mom, what’s going on here?”
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“What do you mean?”
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So that was the way she wanted to play this? He waved his hand to the hallway Freddy had disappeared down a few moments ago, then motioned to her bathrobe. “Who is that man?”
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“I told you. That’s Freddy.”
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Marcus resisted the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose. “As I’ve gathered. Who is he to you?”
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“Oh.” She straightened. “My boyfriend.”
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Marcus struggled to contain his frustration. “For how long?”
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“About four months.”
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“Four months? You’ve only lived here for four months.”
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“Your Aunt Barbara introduced us when I visited in January. He was one of the reasons I made the move.”
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“Why have you never mentioned him?”
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“For one thing, it’s none of your business. For another, I knew you’d overreact.”
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“And you’ve been intimate with him?”
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“Grow up, Marcus. It’s not like I’m going to get pregnant.”
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He sputtered. What he wouldn’t give for a memory wipe right about now. If there was ever something he wanted to forget, it was hearing his mom say those words. “What about Dad?”
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“Your father has been gone for almost two years. I’m only sixty-eight. I have plenty of good years ahead of me, and I plan to enjoy them.” She gripped his hand, glanced over her shoulder, and whispered loudly. “Besides, we’re only having a bit of fun.”
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The spot above Marcus’s right eyebrow throbbed. Time to put an end to this. “Get rid of him. You and I need to talk.”
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She put her hands on her hips and glared at him like she’d done when he’d been a mischievous little boy. “I’ll do no such thing. You came to spend time with me. And that means spending time with Freddy.”
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He shook his head, trying to make sense of the situation. Had his mother just given him an ultimatum? She kept talking, but the words came at him like feedback on a telephone.
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“Where are you staying?” she asked.
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Good question. The original plan was to stay at her place, but that hardly seemed viable now. “Hotel.”
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“Oh, that’s perfect. Freddy and I were about to get ready for our bridge game. You go check in. We’ll meet for dinner.”
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Marcus nodded numbly.
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Freddy emerged dressed in black pants and a light blue dress shirt. “Vi, you better get ready. We don’t want to be late.”
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She reached up to pinch Marcus’s cheek. “I’m so happy you’re here.” She steered him to the front door and nudged him over the threshold. “I’ll text you when we’re done.”
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Perhaps dinner would be an opportunity to talk without Freddy hovering in the background. Then an unpleasant realization dawned. No. Surely, she wouldn’t bring her new boyfriend to dinner with the son she hadn’t seen in almost six months. He turned, intending to ask, but the door closed before he had a chance.
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Stunned, he stood frozen on his mother’s front porch, staring at nothing in particular and realizing that this trip was going to be nothing like he’d planned.
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