Deadly Means

DEADLY MEANS CAROLYN RIDDER ASPENSON DEADLY MEANS Copyright © 2023 Carolyn Ridder Aspenson. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. Severn River Publishing www.SevernRiverBooks.com This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. ISBN: 978-1-64875-440-1 (Paperback) CONTENTS Also By Carolyn Ridder Aspenson 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 Also by Carolyn Ridder Aspenson About Carolyn Ridder Aspenson ALSO BY CAROLYN RIDDER ASPENSON The Rachel Ryder Thriller Series Damaging Secrets Hunted Girl Overkill Countdown Body Count Fatal Silence Deadly Means Final Fix To find out more about Carolyn Ridder Aspenson and her books, visit severnriverbooks.com/authors/carolyn-ridder-aspenson For Jack Love you always. “There are those of us who live in rooms of experience that we can never enter.” —John Steinbeck 1 Two hundred files. We’d been sitting in the investigation room for hours going through two hundred cold case files searching for something that, as my partner Bishop had said, tickled our fancy. I cringed at the thought of Bishop’s fancy—whatever that was—being tickled. “We’ve got one stack of files left. If we don’t find something reasonably interesting, we’re going to have to investigate Bobby Joe Pyott’s missing tractor.” I shoved a few files around the large investigation room table until I found that file and jabbed my finger on it. “From 1992.” I dipped my head back. “Shoot me now.” Bishop laughed, and an overgrown clump of salt and pepper hair slicked to the side of his head jiggled. “Remember when our biggest investigation was busting kids for stealing drinks and candy from the park and recreation field concessions stands? We could still be doing that.” My eyes darted from a particularly uninteresting cold case file to his face. I narrowed them purposefully. “Do not put that out in the universe.” He wiggled his eyebrows. “Just watch what you wish for.” “Thanks for the life lesson, Dad.” I winked at him. The father in Bishop couldn’t help sneaking lessons into his conversations. On the back end of fifty, he believed his vast life experience benefited others. I trailed behind him in years, though not in experiences, but I knew everyone had to learn their lessons in their own way and time. I tossed another boring file onto the growing stack on the floor and rummaged through the bottom stack of case files we’d yet to review. We hadn’t investigated anything exciting in over two months, and my constant griping and whining annoyed everyone, including myself. I grabbed a file and opened it. “Five dollars stolen from the counter of a fruit stand in Alpharetta back in 1981?” I shut the folder and dropped it onto the top of the no files, shaking my head in disbelief. “Probably fifty murders reported in Chicago that same year and yet no one cared enough to report a five-dollar theft.” I felt my eyes roll. “What is wrong with the people of my hometown? Does justice not matter?” Bishop’s upper lip twitched. “I sense sarcasm in your tone.” “Ya think?” “Chicago is a big city. In 1981, Hamby was still part of Alpharetta, and mostly farmland. I think there were maybe three thousand people on the census?” I dropped another case file on the uninteresting stack. “Of course, you would know that. You’re a cesspool of useless information.” “Not really. A former city councilman wrote a history of Hamby book. It’s in my bathroom.” “Thanks for sharing.” I tossed another ridiculous case file onto the no pile. “We need something to do. I can’t sit around watching Michels pick his nails much longer.” He sipped his coffee. “You’re really champing at the bit, aren’t you?” I pressed my lips together. “I’m bored.” Mostly, I needed something to keep my mind off my significant other and his undercover assignment with the DEA, but work had hit a new level of boring. “When you first started here, you said you wanted to get away from the pressures of big-city crimes. Welcome to your dream coming true.” “I didn’t think it would be this slow. And you know that was only part of why I came here.” I’d come to Hamby after my husband was murdered, to honor what he and I had planned for our retirement. “I knew it would be slower here, but missing tractors and petty cash crimes? I just can’t.” Bishop’s eyes softened. He wouldn’t get snarky over anything having to do with Tommy because he knew watching someone you love be murdered is nothing to joke about, and he respected that. I drummed my fingers on a stack of files. “Is this need to be busy really about boredom or is it about Kyle?” And in came the thing I didn’t want to discuss. I crossed my arms over my chest and tried to make light of it. “Are you trying to psychoanalyze me, because I’m not paying you to be my therapist.” “Consider it a perk of the job.” “Thanks, but I think I’ll pass.” I’d had more than enough psychoanalysis when Tommy was murdered. Bishop’s expression turned serious. “I didn’t mean to—” “You didn’t. Don’t worry about it.” I’d done my best at keeping the guilt over my husband’s murder at bay. Sometimes it worked, sometimes it didn’t. Grief is eternal, and it mutates like a virus, fighting to keep me locked inside the bowels of guilt and despair. There was no changing