Felony Murder, A C.o.P. on the Scene Mystery: A C.o.P. on the Scene Mystery, #4

FELONY MURDER

a C.o.P. on the Scene Mystery

Kassandra Lamb

a misterio press publication

Published by misterio press LLC

Cover design by Melinda VanLone, Book Cover Corner; Photo credit: © Charles Morra | purchased right to use from Dreamstime.com

Copyright © 2024 by Kassandra Lamb

All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be used, transmitted, stored, distributed or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without the writer’s written permission, except very short excerpts for reviews. The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or by any other means without the publisher’s/author’s express permission is illegal and punishable by law.

Felony Murder is a work of fiction. All names, characters, events and most places are products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual events or people, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. Some real places may be used fictitiously. The City of Starling, Florida, and Clover County, Florida, are fictitious.

NO AI TRAINING: Without in any way limiting the author’s and [publisher’s] exclusive rights under copyright, any use of this publication to train generative artificial intelligence (AI) technologies to generate text is expressly prohibited. The author reserves all rights to license uses of this work for generative AI training and development of machine learning language models.

The publisher does not have control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites and their content.

OTHER BOOKS by KASSANDRA LAMB

The Kate Huntington Mysteries

Psychotherapist Kate Huntington helps others cope with trauma, but she has led a charmed life…until a killer rips it apart. (10 novels)

~

The Kate on Vacation Mysteries

Even on vacation, Kate Huntington can’t stay out of trouble. (4 novellas)

~

The Marcia Banks and Buddy Cozy Mysteries

Marcia Banks trains service dogs for veterans, and solves crimes on the side, with the help of her Black Lab, Buddy. (13 novels/novellas)

~

The C.o.P. on the Scene Mysteries

Eight days into her new job as Chief of Police in a small Florida city, Judith Anderson finds herself one step behind a serial killer. (spinoff from the Kate Huntington series; 4 stories–more to come)

~

Romantic Suspense

written under the pen name of Jessica Dale

Contents

1.CHAPTER ONE

2.CHAPTER TWO

3.CHAPTER THREE

4.CHAPTER FOUR

5.CHAPTER FIVE

6.CHAPTER SIX

7.CHAPTER SEVEN

8.CHAPTER EIGHT

9.CHAPTER NINE

10.CHAPTER TEN

11.CHAPTER ELEVEN

12.CHAPTER TWELVE

13.CHAPTER THIRTEEN

14.CHAPTER FOURTEEN

15.CHAPTER FIFTEEN

16.CHAPTER SIXTEEN

17.CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

18.CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

19.CHAPTER NINETEEN

20.CHAPTER TWENTY

21.CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

22.CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

23.CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

24.CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

25.CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

26.CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

27.CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

EPILOGUE

AUTHOR’S NOTES

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

CHAPTER ONE

My private line rang, interrupting my train of thought. I grabbed the receiver and barked out a hello.

And realized too late that I should’ve restrained my annoyance. Only a few key people had my private number—like the mayor and the chair of the city council.

Silence on the line.

Yup, I’d pissed somebody off. Not the first time, probably wouldn’t be the last.

Chief Anderson? A tentative voice, male…and young.

Yes. I tried for neutral but my voice was still a bit brusque.

I’m sorry to bother you, ma’am, but I’ve run out of options. My trial is coming up in three weeks and I’m innocent. But I could end up in the electric ch–

Who the hell is this? I yelled into the phone. And how did you get this number?

My assistant, Officer Gloria Barnes, appeared in my doorway. As usual, her uniform was impeccable, her dark hair tucked into a neat bun. But her forehead was creased, her lips a thin line.

If I answer the second question, the young man said, will you hear me out?

I ground my teeth but forced myself to stop and think. Yes, finding out how he’d gotten my private line number merited a little of my time.

You’ve got two minutes.

My name is Juan Alvarez.

He had no accent, so not a first-generation immigrant. In Florida, odds were high that he was Cuban-American.

I’m going to trial soon on a felony murder charge. His voice was now moving toward frantic. A supposed drug deal that ended badly. But I wasn’t there. I had nothing to do with it.

What’s the case number?

I was surprised when he rattled it off.

Most accused who were awaiting trial had no idea what their case number was. They didn't realize it was a useful piece of information when dealing with law enforcement and/or the legal system.

I no longer thought of it as the justice system, because justice did not always prevail. Instead, it enforced the law—most of the time—for better or worse.

Will you look into my case? I tell you, I’m being set up.

I’ll take a look at the file. I paused. Beyond that, no promises. But only if you tell me how you got my private number.

It’s on the bathroom wall on the men’s side of the county jail.

A voice yelling in the background.

Gotta go. Juan disconnected.

I cussed a blue streak.

Barnes took a step into my office, her dark eyes wide. Chief?

Get me the jail superintendent, asap! Then get the number changed for my private line.

After chewing out the jail super, I brought up Alvarez’s case file on my computer.

Juan Alvarez was indeed about to go to trial for felony murder, in a drug deal that had apparently gone sideways. According to the file, he was a member of a gang who’d met up with one Miguel Navarro to sell the latter cocaine.

But somehow Navarro had ended up dead, and Alvarez’s compadres had both cut deals to lower their sentences, fingering Alvarez.

No one, however, had admitted to actually wielding the knife that killed Navarro—a knife that was still missing. And there were no weapons in Alvarez’s home when he was picked up.

I sat back in my chair and sighed.

My private line rang. My heart rate jacked up a notch. I glanced at the caller ID and breathed out another sigh, this one relieved. I knew this caller. Hello.

Hey there. Sheriff Sam’s lovely baritone. How’s your day going?

Should I pretend everything’s hunky-dory or ’fess up that I’m having a lousy morning?

That bad, huh? There was no fooling Sam. He knew me too well.

Some guy with a felony murder charge hanging over his head got ahold of my private line number.

A beat of silence. Not good. His voice was grim.

It gets worse. He got it off the men’s room wall in the jail.

Sam’s turn to cuss a blue streak.

I took the liberty, I said, of chewing the jail super’s ass personally. Hope you don’t mind. The jail was under Sam’s purview as Clover County’s sheriff, but the City of Starling shared in its expenses, since it often temporarily housed many of our less-desirable residents.

No problem, Sam said. "The question is how did someone in jail get that number in the first place?"

I can make an educated guess or two. Unfortunately, a couple members of my police department had passed through the jail recently, facing charges for corruption, or worse.

Who’s the prisoner? Sam asked. I’ll yank his phone privileges.

No, don’t do that. I’m going to look into the case.

Why?

Because the guy was arrested in early July.

The sound of air being blown out. Two months before you took over, he said.

Yeah. While Chief Black was still here, and guess who the lead detective was?

Patterson.

Yup. Patterson. One of those corrupt cops now in jail.

Another sigh on his end. I’ll get that wall scrubbed down right away.

"No need, I’m sure someone is already working on it. I hope you don’t mind, but I really needed to chew someone’s ass."

Sam chuckled. See you tonight?

Hope so.

Another soft chuckle. God willing and the bad guys behave.

I disconnected, grabbed my Glock from my desk drawer and my black wool jacket from the back of my chair, and headed out.

Barnes started to rise from the chair behind her desk, just outside my office.

I held up a hand. I have an errand to run. Shouldn’t take more than an hour or two.

I usually took Barnes with me when I went out into the field. It was part of our deal. She handled a lot of tedious details for me, while learning to be a detective at my elbow.

It was an unorthodox arrangement, but one I’d made out of necessity, after Chief Black had cut the department’s budget to the bone, right before he’d retired. A not very discreet attempt to sabotage me as the new chief.

I’d pulled Barnes out of the rookie pool. And now I was damned glad the circumstances had made that happen. The young woman had quickly made herself indispensable.

I would fill her in later, if Alvarez’s story seemed to have merit.

Twenty minutes later, I arrived at the Clover County jail, a short distance past the city/county line. When Starling had incorporated back in the 1960s, the deal had been struck with the county regarding the shared expenses and use of the facilities.

Within a few minutes, I was sitting at a large metal table in a stark interview room, waiting for the prisoner to be brought to me. The walls were the color that my college roommate used to call baby-shit green. And their dinginess said the paint—most likely purchased at an Army surplus store—had been applied many years ago.

Maybe I’d have a chat with Mark Hayes, the chair of the city council, about forking over some funds to give the jail a facelift. Not for the prisoners, but for the members of the public and law enforcement who had to come here. The place was depressing enough.

Councilman Hayes had been generous with me so far—pushing through a supplemental budget—and even more so since he’d declared he was running for mayor against the incumbent.

I had to walk a fine line, though. I couldn’t be seen as taking sides with either candidate, or I might be out of a job after the election.

Holy hell, how I hated politics.

The door opened, saving me from further thoughts along those lines.

The bright orange in Juan Alvarez’s striped jumpsuit did nothing good for his complexion. His skin was an ashen beige color, his brown eyes big in his face. Tall and slender, he was probably a handsome kid, when he didn’t look like a deer in headlights.

He shuffled over to the other chair, where the guard attached his handcuffs to a large metal ring welded to the table’s surface. Both the table and the chairs were bolted down. I’d double checked when I’d entered the room.

As the door swung shut, Alvarez said, Thank you for coming, Chief Anderson.

I frowned. I read the case file, now tell me your story.

And make it good, I thought. If this was a waste of time, I would not be a happy camper.

"Last year, when I was sixteen, I was approached by a gang and invited to join them. I declined. They didn’t take it well, but at that point I was more afraid of my abuela than of them. She would’ve killed me if I’d joined a gang."

He paused for breath. His diction was good, and he had no accent. Definitely not a first-generation immigrant.

Besides, I had no interest in that life. I’d planned to go to college…. He trailed off, dropped his gaze.

Then he cleared his throat. They harassed me for a while, but eventually left me alone. I was surprised. Most gangs don’t ever take no for an answer. Well, apparently these guys had other plans.

He paused again, sucked in a big breath. Seven months ago, out of the blue, I was arrested for selling drugs and for felony murder.

He leaned forward. I had no idea what the police were talking about. But I had no alibi for the Friday night in question, which was back in May. My family had gone to my cousin’s birthday party, but I’d stayed home to study for the SATs. The test was the next morning. He swallowed hard. I was alone all evening.

The kid was well-spoken, maybe a little too much so. His story sounded a bit rehearsed. Was he coached, maybe by his lawyer?

"I was told that my, quote, cohorts had turned me in, to get lighter sentences for themselves. He grimaced. The cops named two guys I’d never heard of before."

He scrubbed a long thin hand over his face. The state attorney’s office offered a deal, but I don’t want to go to prison for something I didn’t do. That’s not how I’d planned… he choked up some, …for my life to go.

Stalling while I processed what he’d said, I asked, How come you’re here in the county jail, and not at Raiford state prison? That’s where prisoners usually awaited trial.

"My lawyer arranged that. My abuela was sick, couldn’t drive all that way to visit me. He looked away, blinked twice. She’s the only one who visits. My parents have disowned me."

He stopped again to suck in air. "Or she was the only one. She died last month. I’m praying they don’t move me now. Those two guys who said I was their accomplice…"

He turned his head back toward me. His eyes locked on mine. They’re in Raiford, and I’m scared they’ll kill me if I go there.

I nodded. They just might. A prison shanking, if they got away with it, would close the case. And they wouldn’t have to testify, and perhaps get caught in a lie. But that wouldn’t mean this kid was innocent, although it would be a moot issue then.

So, why should I believe you? I asked.

He shrugged. "I have no record, never been in any trouble. And I get all As… I mean, I got all As and Bs in school. He stopped, swallowed hard again. But I don’t know how you prove you weren’t somewhere, when you have no witnesses to where you really were."

He had a good point. It was hard to prove a negative.

Your trial begins next month?

Three weeks and two days.

Okay. I started to push myself to a stand. I’ll talk to these two guys, see–

No, he interrupted. Please don’t let them know I’m saying they’re lying. Then they’ll come after me for sure."

I pursed my lips. Okay. I have another angle I can use as my excuse for talking to them. I’ll keep you out of it.

I headed for the door, but once there, I turned. What was the deal the ASA offered?

Life without parole.

My jaw dropped before I could catch it. For felony murder?

He shrugged. She said that or the death penalty were the only options under Florida law for felony murder. His eyes grew shiny. But honestly, I’d rather be dead than be in prison all my life…and have my family believing I’m a killer and a gang member.

I tried to ignore the ache in my chest as I reclaimed my gun and phone from the guard. I’d always had mixed emotions about felony murder statutes, which allowed anyone who participated in a felony to be charged with first degree murder if someone died during the commission of that felony. Even if the person being charged wasn’t the one who killed the victim.

It was meant to be a deterrent—you commit a felony, someone dies, you pay for that death. But that’s assuming criminals were smart enough to think such things through ahead of time.

Ha!

And I’d seen the law applied rather harshly, as may well be the case this time, if Alvarez was telling the truth.

I exited the jail, then took a deep breath. Mid-February and already northern Florida was showing signs of spring. Azaleas bloomed along one side of the parking lot. And despite the cold front that had blown through last night, dropping us from yesterday’s high of seventy-three to the low sixties today, a whiff of a warm breeze stirred my short hair.

I shoved a stray dark strand out of my eyes as I stood by my car, thinking. My phone rang, pulling me out of my reverie.

I climbed into my car and started the engine. Bradley flashed up on my Bluetooth screen.

Smiling, I accepted the call from my second in command. "Hey, Lieutenant," I said in a cheerful voice, acknowledging his recent promotion.

Chief, where are you? His tone was frantic.

My heart rate kicked up. Bradley was rarely anything but laid back. Near the county line. Why?

Someone just shot at the mayor. His driver’s down.

CHAPTER TWO

I popped the portable light bubble onto the roof of my compact and hit the button for the jury-rigged siren. Since my predecessor had preferred having detectives submit mileage for the use of their personal vehicles, I had only two unmarked sedans in my motor pool at this point. One was driven by Bradley and the other was shared among the other detectives.

I hoped to add two more unmarked vehicles with my next budget. Although personally I didn’t require anything fancy, it was undignified for the Starling CoP to be driving an eight-year-old beige compact while on duty.

But one thing I had to give my little car, it had great acceleration. I floored it and made it to the municipal building—home of the police department as well as the city government—in thirteen minutes flat.

Only to be stymied several blocks out by a cordoned-off road and a significant crowd of bystanders, gawking at the front of the building. I jumped out of my car and hoofed it the rest of the way.

Paramedics were loading a man into an ambulance. He had blond hair.

Thank God it’s not the mayor.

Then a small spurt of guilt. This man, no doubt the mayor’s driver, was somebody’s son, husband, father.

I stifled the feeling—no time for that now—and shoved through the crowd. Make way. Chief of Police. Most quickly stepped aside, opening a path. A few were a tad slower.

I thought I saw Sam’s khaki-clad shoulders. I did a double-take. He was talking to a woman beside him, head bent down.

What the hell…why’s he here? And why was he standing passively in the crowd of looky-loos?

I shook my head. No time for that now, either. I broke through the crowd, only to realize that the official scene entrance was thirty feet to my left.

Damn! I didn’t want to take the time to wade through more onlookers, some now pushing the limits by leaning forward over the crime scene tape that established the scene’s perimeter.

And I was definitely in no mood to do so with any degree of politeness. Better to break protocol.

After all, I am the chief.

I ducked under the tape and turned back toward the crowd, holding up my badge. Stay back, folks.

Hey, the uniform with the scene log yelled from the official entrance.

I swiveled, pointing my badge in his direction, then jogged over.

Recognition bloomed on his face as I got closer. Sorry, didn’t recognize you at first, Chief. He scribbled in the log.

Where’s the mayor? I asked.

Inside the building.

I nodded and took off for the front door, noting that my CSI team was already examining the sidewalk and front wall of the building.

I’d expected more chaos inside. But the lobby was eerily quiet, except for the tap of my low-heeled pumps on the white marble floor as I moved toward the elevator.

Wait. Soft echoes off to the right—voices. I headed that way.

Lieutenant Bradley, Mayor Daniels, and three others in business attire, one woman and two men, were crammed into a small room off the lobby. They were all talking at once.

What happened? I called out.

Nobody paid me any attention.

The mayor, a wiry man only slightly taller than my five-seven, was talking the loudest, and gesturing wildly.

I cleared my throat, twice.

No response.

I put my fingers in the corners of my mouth and whistled. Everyone froze.

What the hell happened? I demanded.

The cacophony of voices erupted again.

Bradley held up a hand and stepped forward. The others fell silent, finally.

I was in an interview room upstairs, with a burglary suspect, Bradley said, when I heard two shots. I ran down the fire stairs and found Mayor Daniels in the lobby, calling 911, and his driver was out on the sidewalk. Shoulder wound. The other bullet must have gone astray.

Canvassing? I said.

Sarge and the uniforms are on it, and they’re looking for the stray bullet.

Hopefully, it didn’t go through somebody’s window, I muttered for only Bradley’s ears.

He nodded grimly. Stray bullets in a city were not a good thing.

Any info on the shooter?

Not yet. Collins and Cruthers are wading through the bystanders, trying to find anyone who saw anything.

Wading is the word for it.

The mayor see anything? I said in a low voice.

Bradley made a face and shook his head. He’d dropped his phone and leaned down to get it, then heard the shots and old instincts kicked in. He hit the ground.

‘Old instincts?’

Yeah. He lowered his own voice. Believe it or not, he was in the Army. Desert Storm.

Okay, thanks. I stepped around Bradley and scanned the others, huddled together a few feet away. "Mr. Mayor, I’m assigning a uniformed officer as your driver, for the time being. I emphasized the last part, so he wouldn’t get any ideas about keeping his police detail indefinitely. I was already short-staffed. And a detective will also go with you wherever you go. You’ll introduce her as an intern who’s shadowing you."

Wellbourne? Bradley asked in a low voice.

I nodded, without breaking eye contact with the mayor. And you are to wear a Kelvar vest whenever you leave your office, sir, even inside the building.

The mayor opened his mouth, and I held up a hand. No arguments, please. It’s for your own protection.

He blinked and closed his mouth again.

I’m also looking into the driver’s background, Bradley whispered in my ear, to see if he might be the actual target.

I nodded again, a little absentmindedly. I was trying to figure out who the third man was. The tall, husky guy was the city manager, and the woman was the mayor’s admin assistant.

I closed the gap between me and the third guy in two strides. He was medium build, medium height and nattily dressed, his brown hair cut short in a buzz cut. A bit older than me—late forties to early fifties.

I extended my hand. I don’t think we’ve met. I’m Judith Anderson, Chief of Police.

A smile lit up his tanned face. Blue eyes sparkled with amusement, which seemed rather inappropriate under the circumstances. I figured that’s who you were.

He took my hand and gave it a firm shake. I’m Peter McAllister, the new special assistant to the mayor.

His hand was warm and a slight frisson of energy passed between us.

My eyebrows went up as I pulled my hand loose. I didn’t query further why the mayor needed another assistant, nor did I ask what made him so special.

Instead, I turned slightly to include everyone in the room. We’re going to need to know where all of you were during the last hour.

I was at the doctor’s, Mr. Special Assistant immediately piped up. Dermatologist. Annual checkup.

Barnes had pointed out that skin cancer was all too prevalent in Florida and one should get an annual going-over by a dermatologist. Looking out for my health wasn’t in her job description, but she seemed to think it was part of her role.

McAllister raised a hand halfway to his face, then glanced at it and let it drop back to his side. Was he about to touch some spot the dermatologist had worked on? Or was it only a nervous gesture?

When I got back, he said, the roads were already closed around the building. Had to park a few blocks away.

Thank you. I turned to the others.

All of them looked a little nervous. Understandable, since their boss had just been shot at.

Indeed, Mr. Mayor was the only one who didn’t seem anxious. He wore his usual red-faced expression of anger, his response to anything he didn’t like.

Lieutenant Bradley will take your statements, I said and quickly left the room before Mr. Mayor could explode in my direction.

On the elevator to the third floor, home of the Starling PD, I texted Sam.

Where are you?

A pause before he responded. At my desk.

Oh, I thought I saw you in the crowd.

What crowd?

The elevator door opened and I stepped off. I called Sam instead of texting.

What crowd? he asked again when he answered.

In front of my building. I filled him in on the attempt on the mayor as I walked to my office.

He whistled softly. That was pretty brazen.

Yup, and we’ve got nada so far on the vehicle or the shooter.

Anything I can do to help?

Not yet. Maybe later, when we know more.

Why’d you think I was in the crowd? he asked.

I saw a guy with your build, sandy hair, khaki shirt, and thought it was you. He even moved like you. But he was turned to the side, so I didn’t see the face.

Sam chuckled.