Death Opens a Window Read online

  Also by Mikel J. Wilson

  Mourning Dove Mysteries

  Murder on the Lake of Fire

  Death Opens a Window (Coming Soon)

  Watch for more at Mikel J. Wilson’s site.

  This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  MOURNING DOVE MYSTERIES: DEATH OPENS A WINDOW

  Copyright ©2018 by Mikel J. Wilson.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  Cover design by Damonza.com.

  Author portrait by Dave Meyer at DaveMeyerDesign.com.

  Hair by Adrian Mayorga at thecountryclubbarbers.com.

  Mikel J. Wilson

  555 W. Country Club Lane, C-222

  Escondido, CA 92026

  MIKELJWILSON.com

  Paperback ISBN: 978-1-947392-38-0

  Hardcover ISBN: 978-1-947392-39-7

  First Edition, October 2018

  Printed in the United States of America through Acorn Publishing at AcornPublishingLLC.com.

  Dedicated to my BSM.

  Table of Contents

  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

  Epilogue

  Chapter 1

  At thirty-two stories, the Godfrey Tower jutted from the Knoxville skyline like a shark fin in the Tennessee River. Unseen through the frameless exterior walls of silvery, reflective glass, a young woman on the twenty-ninth floor sat with a phone held to her ear, pretending to be on a business call as she stared out the floor-to-ceiling window behind her desk. While her colleagues busied themselves on phones or computers at the dozens of cubicles throughout the large, open office space, Angie was not contributing to the organization’s productivity.

  If she had looked down and across the street, the attractive brunette would’ve seen the unremarkable roof of the area’s next-tallest building fourteen floors below her. Instead she focused on the unobstructed view of downtown and the hazy, snow-peaked mountains beyond. She imagined herself hiking below the snowline with her new lumbersexual boyfriend and lying with him on a blanket before a tantric campfire. Angie could almost hear the crackling wood, until she realized the sound was coming from behind her.

  She turned her chair around to see her boss tapping her desk with his pen. The hoary goat of a man stared her down, his pinched eyes straining to scold her through spotted glasses. “You’re having a rather one-sided conversation.”

  Angie held up a silencing finger to her boss and made up something to say to her imaginary caller. “Thank you so much for your feedback, Mr. Watkins. We always appreciate hearing about good customer service, and I’ll be sure to pass along your kudos. Okay. Take care now.” She hung up the phone and greeted her boss with a smile. “I’m sorry, but I didn’t hear what you said.” She mimed a talking mouth with her hand. “He was talking my ear off.”

  Mr. Ramsey, however, did not return her smile. In fact, a look of horror sprinted across his face as something behind her snatched his attention. Before Angie could turn around to see what it was, she heard a great shattering, followed by the pelting of glass on her back and right cheek.

  A dark-haired man in a brown suit flew through the window headfirst and thudded faceup onto the floor beside her. The impact against the man’s back shoved the air from his lungs. He gurgled as he struggled to regain his breath – although no one could hear it over the screams of Angie and several of her co-workers. Shards of glass protruded from his head and neck, one at the base of an erratic fountain of blood that sprang from his carotid artery.

  Angie, now shocked into silence, tore her eyes from the dying man and toward the broken window through which she had daydreamed just a moment earlier. Oblivious to the blood trickling from the small cuts on her own face, she took a step toward the large hole the man’s body had punched into the glass wall. She poked her head outside and looked all around.

  Her boss grabbed her and pulled her away from the precarious opening. “Angie, what are you doing? It’s not safe!”

  The young woman turned a confused face to him. “Where did he come from?”

  This is a mistake. Wearing a gray suit with a paisley tie, Emory Rome fidgeted in an ill-padded chair inside the waiting room of the Law Offices of Neal and Reinhardt. What the hell am I doing here?

  For the third or maybe fourth time, his eyes wandered around the room’s cheap décor of dusty fake plants and scratched veneer furniture, seeking anything of interest. Of the half-dozen others waiting to be called, not one warranted more than a passing glance – not the bleary-eyed, fortyish man with the flask bulge in his jacket who was clutching the arms of his chair as if it were an amusement park ride; not the red-headed woman in flats with a smudge of white chalk on the elbow of her green sweater; and not the cross-legged woman in the tailored power suit who was trying to capture his attention with over-mascaraed eyes.

  If I go through with it, that’s it. I’m exposed.

  Emory’s gaze leapfrogged over the flirty-eyed woman to settle on the wall-mounted television. The breaking news story of a mysterious death at an office building held his attention for a few seconds, but it was on a local morning news program he never watched because one of the anchors irritated him.

  I can’t let her get away with it.

  He retrieved a pill bottle from the inside pocket of his jacket and opened it. One left. He popped the pill into his mouth and forced it down with a swig of water from the bottle at his side.

  The angular jawline and high cheekbones of the handsome twenty-three-year-old framed sunken cheeks that gave him the appearance of gritting his teeth, even when he wasn’t. For the record, he was at the moment. He glanced at the ten-dollar clock on the wall. I’m definitely going to be late. Screw it! I can’t do this. Emory ejected himself from the chair and headed for the exit.

  “Mr. Rome? Emory Rome?”

  He looked over his shoulder to the woman behind the desk, her long dark hair streaked by premature white. Seeing her scan the waiting room for acknowledgement, he hesitated but reversed his course. “I’m Emory.”

  The receptionist directed him down a short hall to an open door, through which he saw a robust man with sparse black hair sitting behind a desk and writing at a furious pace on a document clipped inside a folder. Perhaps sensing Emory’s eyes upon him, the lawyer looked up, dropped his pen and rose to greet him
. “Come on in.” He shook Emory’s hand. “Nathan Neal.”

  “Emory Rome.”

  Nathan waved to two shiny silver chairs facing his tidy desk. “Please sit down.” He returned to the other side of the desk and fell back into his overstuffed chair. “You want to talk about suing your former employer for wrongful termination, correct?”

  Emory removed the wool satchel strapped over his shoulder and placed it on the floor beside the chair. “Yes sir.”

  “Explain.”

  “Up until a month ago, I was a special agent with the Tennessee Bureau of Investigation.”

  “That’s where I know you from! You’re the guy responsible for that huge drug bust. What was the name of that kingpin?”

  “Lonnie Hexum.”

  The lawyer slapped his hands together. “That’s right! You’re the one who busted him, right?”

  Emory’s face flushed. “Yes.”

  The lawyer grinned as if he had met a movie star. “Wasn’t that one of the largest drug busts ever?”

  Emory waved his hand in front of him. “No, just in the Southeast.”

  “Just in the…” Nathan interrupted himself with a belly laugh. “It was enough to get you all over the news! So the TBI let you go?”

  Emory retrieved a document from his satchel and handed it to Nathan. “My termination papers. I served with distinction for almost two years, and I was officially released over a false allegation.”

  “Which was?”

  “Eve Bachman, the special agent in charge, accused me of lying on a report.”

  “Did you?”

  “No! During the course of my last investigation, I was drugged. Bachman asserted that I consumed the drug willingly.”

  The attorney pointed to both of them. “Just between you and me.”

  “I didn’t take it knowingly or by choice! She was just using that as an opportunity to get rid of me.”

  “Okay, before we get deep into the details, tell me what you want. Are you looking for a financial settlement? Reinstatement? Revenge?”

  “Mr. Neal, I loved my job. It’s who I am, and it was taken from me.”

  “So reinstatement. We should also seek compensatory damages, just to get their attention.”

  “I don’t care about the money.”

  “But they will.” Nathan plopped his forearms onto his desk and scooched his body forward. “So what’s the real reason your boss wanted you gone?”

  Emory looked to the variegated carpet at his feet and sighed, uncertain how to phrase the answer. His eyes returned to the lawyer, and he took a deep breath.

  Inside Mourning Dove Investigations, Jeff Woodard pushed open a hidden door and stepped into his office from the spiral staircase that connected to his apartment on the second floor. With walls adorned by wrought-iron sconces, gothic art and high bookshelves, the room would not have been out of place inside a 19th Century manse overlooking the foggy moors – except for one quirky feature. A smooth tree trunk was anchored to the floor behind the desk, and from it, two crooked branches extended to adjacent walls.

  The tall private investigator glided over the exquisite map of the world painted on the floor toward an oil painting on the opposite wall. He pulled the frame down two inches, which triggered open a hidden door to the reception area – a similar room with its own artificial tree. Jeff brandished a perfect smile when he saw a beautiful young woman with ebony skin and short black hair sitting at the larger of the two desks in the room. “Good morning.”

  Virginia Kennon’s eyes darted from her computer screen to the tan man with thick, wavy brown hair. “I know why you’re smiling.”

  Jeff lowered his lips and raised an eyebrow. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He put his hands on his hips and surveyed the room. “Does everything look okay?”

  “He’s seen the place before.” Virginia petted the purring bobcat curled up on her desk. “You know, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you nervous.”

  “And I’m not now. I’m anxious. There’s a difference. This is a big deal for us.” Jeff gave himself a glance in the antique mirror on the wall before focusing on his smirking partner. “For the business.”

  “Speaking of which, four potential clients called for appointments this morning.” She retrieved four strips of blue sticky paper from her desk.

  “Did you ask how they heard about us?”

  “Of course, I did.” Virginia walked from behind her desk to hand him the messages. “Three of them saw the new ad.”

  “Hot damn!” Jeff threw his arms around Virginia and swung her around. “It’s already working! I told you it would bring in business. We’re finally going to start making money.”

  “I hope you’re right.” Virginia returned to her chair.

  “I am.” Jeff glanced at the Lenzkirch clock on the wall. “Hey, where is our cash cow?”

  Emory parked his white crossover on the street in Knoxville’s Old City – an area that had served as the red light district a century earlier – and stared at the two-story, brown-brick building half a block away. His eyes moved to the one-story business with which it shared a party wall, and two items caught his attention. One was the colorful banner splayed across the front wall of the smaller building announcing a going-out-of-business sale for a comic book store. The other was a homeless man sitting on the sidewalk with a guitar in his lap.

  What am I doing here? He closed his eyes for a few seconds before exiting the vehicle. Let’s get this over with.

  The morning sun did little to warm the mid-February air. Emory jammed his hands into the pockets of his black field jacket and squeezed his arms to his torso while his visible breath billowed to either side of his face. As he walked he heard an unrecognizable country song strumming from the strings of the homeless man’s guitar. He’s young. Is he homeless or just a hipster? Emory pulled out his wallet when he reached the singer in dingy clothes. “What’s your name?”

  Continuing to play, the man looked up with Prussian-blue eyes through drooping tousles of black hair. “Phineas.”

  “Phineas, I’m Emory. I’m going to give you two cards.” He showed him a gift card he had received over the holidays for a restaurant chain. “This is to get you something to eat.” He nodded toward the west. “I think there’s one about three blocks from here.” He dropped it into the hat and pulled out a business card. “This is the number to a woman who can help you get on your feet again. She’s a social worker.”

  The homeless man stopped playing. “I don’t need charity.”

  Emory tapped his foot on the sidewalk. “Then why the hat?”

  “Getting paid for performing, I get to call myself a professional musician.”

  Emory placed the business card inside the hat. “In case you change your mind.”

  He continued to the brown-brick building, past a window with a painted sign that read, “Mourning Dove Investigations.” He stepped up to the door and turned the brass knob.

  Jeff’s bright green eyes sparkled brighter when he saw Emory walk through the door, but he forced his face into a stern expression. He nodded toward the clock. “Late on your first day.”

  Virginia shot Jeff a dirty look. “You just got—”

  “So why are you late?” Jeff crossed his arms as if expecting to be told a lie.

  Emory hung his jacket on the vintage standing coat rack. “I had an appointment already scheduled. I told you that when I agreed to come on here, and I said I might be late.”

  “Still, not the best first impression.”

  “We had our first impression a month ago.” Emory petted the bobcat. “Good morning, Bobbie.”

  The bobcat jumped from the desk to the artificial tree, climbing to the flap-covered opening that led to Jeff’s upstairs apartment.

  Jeff uncrossed his arms and circled Emory. “Speaking of impressions, you’re representing Mourning Dove Investigations now.”

  “Yes. And?”

  “We have a certain image to uphold.” Jeff p
ointed his thumb to himself and Virginia, who rolled her eyes. “Now that we’ve made you a partner, you do too.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Your clothes. You need to stop dressing like a government agent.”

  “Don’t listen to him.” Virginia came to Emory with a small box and hugged him. “Welcome aboard. This is for you.”

  “What is it?”

  “Your new business cards.” The phone on Virginia’s desk rang. “I better get that.”

  “Thanks for the cards.” Emory headed toward the door to Jeff’s office. “So do I have a desk yet?”

  Jeff blocked him. “Where are you going? This is your office.”

  “This is the reception area.” Emory nodded to Virginia’s desk. “Slash, Virginia’s office.”

  Jeff placed his hands on Emory’s shoulders and faced him toward the tiny desk in the corner by the tree trunk. “That’s for you.”

  “That end table?”

  “That’s not an end table. It’s a desk. Your desk.”

  Emory crept toward the desk and picked up the only object on it – a framed document. He glanced at the text and turned back to Jeff. “Is this a joke?”

  “No, that’s your PI license. It came yesterday, and I framed it for you.”

  “I’m not talking about that. I’m talking about the desk. My so-called office.”

  “Oh my god!” The two men’s conversation was interrupted by an outburst from Virginia, whose phone conversation was taking a turn for the intense. “What happened?”

  Jeff turned his attention back to his new business partner. “Look, I’m sorry, but it’s not like we have unlimited space here.”

  “There’s a lot more room in your office. We could fit another regular-sized desk in there and share—”

  Jeff signaled him to stop. “Whoa! I don’t share an office.”

  “What about when I have a client?”

  “When we have a client, we’ll meet in my office.” He placed a hand on Emory’s back. “Look, I know it’s not ideal, but it’s more than adequate. You just need to personalize it. Put a couple of pictures on your desk.”