Killing Keys - Chap 1

Below is the 1st Chapter of my novel Killing Keys> It is available in the kindle store on amazon.

Synopsis: Killing Keys

Nicholas Woodman is a typical nineteen-year old who works in his uncle's locksmith shop and valets at a posh local restaurant to help his mother make ends meet. Things are mostly fine until his mother loses her job running tours at Kennedy Space Center. With things getting tight financially, and losing their home a distinct possibility, Nicholas finds himself unfairly suspended from the restaurant. When an opportunity presents itself to obtain justice for the wrong done him, the teen embarks on a course of action setting him straight in the path of a sadistic serial killer.

Brevard County Sheriff detectives Belfonce Grant, Anthony Bristol, and Walter Keyes are investigating the murder of a popular high school cheerleader as well as a string of residential burglaries. As the detectives close in on the truth, they are unaware that a group of teens – including the daughter of detective Keyes – are simultaneously hatching a plan to gather evidence proving the true identity of the killer; a plan which will place them in deadly danger.

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CHAPTER 1

“9-1-1, do you need police, fire, or ambulance?’

“Police!... Ambulance! Fuck! I don’t know!... She’s dead!”

At the words “she’s dead,” the dispatcher straightened in her seat. Looking at the 911 address screen, she verified the location of the call: 841 Tonkeau Circle, Merritt Island. “Sir, are you at 841 Tonkeau Circle?” she asked the hysterical male on the line.

“YES! Get me an ambulance. NOW! She’s not breathing! Fuck! Oh Jesus!”

Signaling the radio operator, Louise, across the room to look at the call coming across her Computer Automated Dispatch screen, Lisa thought rapidly. “Sir, who isn’t breathing? What exactly happened?”

“I don’t fucking know ! There’s blood everywhere. My girlfriend. Oh shit! Stephanie! Please, just get the cops and an ambulance here. Now! Her face…!”

Pulling the call for service up onto her CAD screen, Louise looked at Lisa. “I’ll call BCFR and get the ambulance going.”

Nodding, Lisa placed one hand over the phone. “Make sure the paramedics know to stage. Sounds really bad and we don’t know if the scene is secure.”

“Will do.”

“I’ve got four cops and the K9 responding,” said a third operator.

“Hello! Hello! Are you there? Goddamnit!” The hysterical male voice on 911 echoed. Raising a thumb up to the central area radio operator in acknowledgment of the information, Lisa went back to her phone. Knowing that the Brevard County Fire Rescue dispatcher would get an ambulance to the scene as quick as possible, Lisa turned her attention back to the frantic caller. “We’re here Sir. The police and the ambulance are on the way. I need you to check for a pulse and see if she’s breathing.”

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Detective Corporal Belfonce Grant rolled over with a groan. Peeping over a dark skinned, well-muscled shoulder she glanced at the digital display on the alarm clock next to the ringing phone. 12:40 a.m. The number on the phone was dispatch. Shit, I just dozed off twenty minutes ago. As the policewoman fumbled for the phone, her boyfriend groaned and shifted onto his side. Tearing her gaze from the taut derriere and nicely muscled back, the result of years of racquetball and kayaking, she answered the call. “Corporal Grant.”

“Detective? It’s Lisa in dispatch. We’ve got one for you. Probable murder.”

“Where at?”

“It’s right off Tropical Trail. 841 Tonkeau Circle, T-O-N-K-E-A-U. A young woman.”

“What was the manner of death?”

“Blunt trauma to the head. Sergeant Taylor is on scene as incident commander. Crime Scene is enroute too.”

“Okay. Give me Taylor’s cell. I’ll get the info from him.”

“Yes ma’am. Hope your evening was fun; sounds like your night’s gonna be a bear.”

Jotting down the phone number on the pad on the nightstand, the thirty-seven year old African-American detective threw off the rest of the covers and placed her bare feet on the floor. The plush Berber carpet felt soft between her toes and she took an instant to revel in the sensation. Dad always wanted Berber carpet. Too bad he couldn’t check this out. He’d never believe his baby girl became a police detective, much less that she could afford this place. Well, at least Mark can anyway, she thought with a chuckle. Maybe I should have been a nerd and taken up designing video games. Checking the number the dispatcher had given her, Belfonce called Sergeant Taylor. After hanging up from Sgt. Taylor, the detective hit speed dial 3.

“Tony Bristol,” said the deep voice. Her partner sounded wide awake.

“Pistol, it’s Belfonce. We’ve got a live one.”

“Somehow I think you mean we’ve got a dead one. How old, what sex, and how bad?”

“Seventeen. Female. Pretty bad according to the uniforms. Head trauma; blunt.”

“Fuck! By the way, how’s the boyfriend? Still the Conquering Conquistador?”

Mark’s naked body lay sprawled across the queen size bed. After kicking off the covers, the handsome graphics designer had rolled onto his back and dozed off again. The view was spectacular. “From my current perspective he’s quite a dick, and you’re just jealous,” Belfonce said with a laugh. “How’s the wife?”

“Still ugly and no I’m not. See you in ten?”

“Make it fifteen. I have to put my make-up back on.”

“Yeah. You do that. And please comb out the sex hair. I hate the kinky stuff.”

“You know you like it kinky.”

“True dat. I’ll pick you up in fifteen.”

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Winking at his wife of twelve years, Detective Bristol set his cell on the end table. “Got a murder hon.”

Hooking her feet under her calves, Alicia Bristol gave a wan grin and sighed. “Will you be home soon?”

“I don’t know. Probably not. Some teeny bopper got her skull caved over off the Trail. I’ve gotta get my stuff together and pick up Belfonce.”

“Okay. I’ll see you when you get back.”

Placing one hairy knuckled hand on the arm of the couch, Detective Anthony ‘The Pistol’ Bristol leaned over and gave his wife a peck on a plump cheek. “Don’t wait up. I have a feeling it’ll be a long night.”

“That’s okay. Brad and Angelina will keep me company.”

“That’s the spirit.” Grabbing his badge and sidearm, Bristol went to get his jacket. Checking the clip and safety, he slid the pistol into its belt holster and went to find his car keys.

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Nodding at the patrolman at the end of the long, curved driveway, Belfonce showed her badge.

“Morning Detectives,” the young policeman said.

Racking her brain for the patrolman’s name, the detective said “Evening Phil. Where’s Sgt. Taylor?”

Grinning at the whip thin black woman in the car the patrolman nodded his head to the left. “Up at the house. It’s a real fucking circus.”

“Yeah. And lucky me gets elected ringmaster,” Tony said from where he sat behind the wheel of the ‘02 Chevy Malibu.

“Fuck that Pistol. I’m the ringmaster. You’re just the clown.”

“Would that be Detective Bristol the Pistol?” the young patrolman asked.

“The one and only.”

“Hey, Terry in crime scene said I should ask you how you got that nickname.”

“Yeah, screw you,” Bristol said – his chuckle removing the harshness from the comment despite his prominently raised middle finger.

Laughing, Belfonce elaborated. “Our esteemed detective here once pistol whipped a violent suspect while on a domestic abuse call.”

Eyes widening, patrolman Phillippe Velazquez, said “Really? Isn’t that frowned upon?”

“Not necessarily,” the laughing female detective said. “At least not when the suspect is a hundred-pound German Shepherd in the act of orally assaulting a police officer in the commission of his duty.”

“You pistol-whipped a dog?!”

“What the fuck would you do if a hundred-pounds of large-toothed dog was trying to bite your nuts off? At least I didn’t’ shoot the bitch.”

Grinning, Patrolman Velazquez leaned over and looked in the car window. “Ah, that explains how you got away unscathed: The dog had no balls. Don’t worry detective. I’m told the family doesn’t own any dogs.” Satisfied that he had gotten in the last word that counted, the patrol deputy stepped back and, grinning at the antics of the two detectives that most thought of as Cheech and the Nubian Goddess, waved them onward.

“I reiterate, screw you.” Holding up one finger toward the face in the passenger window, the laughing detective made his actions imitate his words.

Rolling up the driveway, Bristol pulled the car behind a Brevard County Sheriff Office patrol car. Stepping out, he quick stepped over to the passenger door and opened it. “Madam, we have arrived at your destination,” he said.

Looking at her partner where he stood, ramrod straight at his whole five foot five inches, looking for all the world like Cheech Marin pretending to be a chauffeur, Belfonce laughed. “When are you going to fix that damn door?”

“What?! And miss the opportunity to open it for the beautiful ladies like the proper gentleman you know I am? Are you nuts?”

Sighing, Belfonce shook her head and stepped out of the car. Looking around at the property she let out a whistle. The front lawn alone could hold three of her house. There were several obviously well-tended flower gardens which showed up nicely in the glare from the flood lights that had been erected by the fire department who had arrived before them. To the left was a large fountain with a statue of some Greek or maybe Roman soldier in it. The muscular figure was clad in what appeared to be studded leather armor with a skirt-like bottom that came to the knees, a large round shield on one arm, a long spear held in its’ opposite hand. At the foot of the soldier a woman knelt, water running from a jug in her hands to cover the feet of the warrior. Beyond that stood the house, overlooking the river like a silent sentinel keeping watch for wayward ships. The Spanish style manse was two stories tall and looked to go back forever, fronting onto the river with a dock in the rear. “Nice place. Nice statue.”

“It’s a Hoplite.” As his cell phone rang the diminutive detective pulled it out. “Bristol.”

Glancing at her partner, Belfonce quirked an eyebrow in query.

“She’s right here L.T.”

Taking the phone, Belfonce put it to her ear. “How the hell am I supposed to get ahold of you if you won’t ever answer your damn cell phone?” said the voice of her boss, Lieutenant Riley.

Pulling her cell from her pocket she looked at it. Off. Pushing the button on the top right with one finger she held it for a few seconds until the little apple with the bite missing showed on the screen. “You know us terriers, Lieutenant. Hate to be leashed.”

“Turn your damn cell on and give me an update before I lose the Beggin’ Strips,” came the gruff reply.

“Come on LT. You know we need real bacon. Well, we bitch terriers do, anyway.”

“Seriously Belfonce. What you got?”

“We don’t know yet Lieutenant. Pistol and I just got to the scene.”

“Okay. I spoke with Sgt. Taylor about fifteen ago. Doesn’t sound pretty. Keep me posted. We’re gonna have a media shit-storm. You know how it is when some rich little white girl gets killed.”

“Indeed, I do. I’ll keep you posted.” Clicking closed the cell, she handed it back to her partner. Placing her own cell, now on and showing two missed calls from her boss, into a front pocket the detective corporal headed up to the house to confront what she was sure would be another horrific scene.

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Below is a link to the novel. Any comments and/or constructive criticism are, as always, welcom.

https://www.amazon.com/Killing-Keys-Andrew-C-McDonald-ebook/dp/B07VM843XL/ref=sr_1_13?crid=362XU42NDG4SX&keywords=Killing+Keys&qid=1687150827&s=digital-text&sprefix=killing+keys%2Cdigital-text%2C88&sr=1-13