The Dark Halo

THE DARK HALODavid StanleyPaper Street Publishing Paper Street Publishing Copyright © 2023 David StanleyThe moral right of the author has been assertedThis is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidentalAll rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission of the publishersISBN (ebook) 9781916176362 ISBN (paperback) 9781916176379www.davidjstanley.comwww.paperstreetpublishing.net This book is for Lindsey and Connor,who continue to not kill me in my sleep Contents 1. Chapter 1 2. Chapter 2 3. Chapter 3 4. Chapter 4 5. Chapter 5 6. Chapter 6 7. Chapter 7 8. Chapter 8 9. Chapter 9 10. Chapter 10 11. Chapter 11 12. Chapter 12 13. Chapter 13 14. Chapter 14 15. Chapter 15 16. Chapter 16 17. Chapter 17 18. Chapter 18 19. Chapter 19 20. Chapter 20 21. Chapter 21 22. Chapter 22 23. Chapter 23 24. Chapter 24 25. Chapter 25 26. Chapter 26 27. Chapter 27 28. Chapter 28 29. Chapter 29 30. Chapter 30 31. Chapter 31 32. Chapter 32 33. Chapter 33 34. Chapter 34 35. Chapter 35 36. Chapter 36 37. Chapter 37 38. Chapter 38 39. Chapter 39 40. Chapter 40 41. Chapter 41 42. Chapter 42 43. Chapter 43 44. Chapter 44 45. Chapter 45 46. Chapter 46 47. Chapter 47 48. Chapter 48 About the Author 1THE WINE BOTTLE LAY on its side, several feet back from the edge of the bed, like a finger pointing. He paused to squat down and study it. A thick film of dust covered the outside. An expensive wine no doubt, stored for years in a cellar. The dust was smudged around the middle where fingers had held it and a dark red stain had formed under the open end, spreading out across the pale cream carpet. Though the scene had already been photographed, Coombes was careful not to accidentally kick the bottle as he approached the body. Milton Vandenberg was propped up on pillows facing the television, his face as still and white as a glass of milk. On top of the sheet, in the valley between his ancient legs, lay three empty pharmaceutical bottles. The pills, the wine. It told a story; one he’d seen play out many times before. A businessman, down on his luck, checks into an expensive hotel then checks out without paying. Only, Vandenberg wasn’t down on his luck. Far from it. The man was senior executive officer at Pacific Pictures, notable for their Stick Shift driving movies. The latest in the franchise had recently crossed the billion-dollar mark at the global box office and showed no sign of stopping.Vandenberg fit an emerging pattern; rich, powerful, and dead.Coombes turned his attention to the containers in the old man’s lap. He was able to read the label without having to move them. Diazepam, 10 mg. The drug was the generic form of Valium, an anti-stress medication that had been around for a long time. The label indicated that each bottle held a hundred tablets.He shook his head.Assuming they’d been full, three hundred was a lot to swallow. Even spread out over half an hour, it would be heavy going and require a strong desire to get to the end. Combined with the alcohol, 3000 mg would certainly be enough to see the old man over the rainbow bridge. This was no cry for help.Grace Sato spoke behind him.“What do you think?”“Looks legit,” he said. “No sign of force.”He avoided saying the word suicide, it bothered him.“One less for us to worry about then.”“Maybe. I don’t see a note.”“Come on, Johnny. Not this again. They don’t all leave notes. Women leave notes, men not so much. Half the men I know can’t write anymore. Maybe he sent a text or an email, that’s more a man’s speed. Quick, clean, no emotion.”Vandenberg didn’t look like the type of man to send a text. Not at the end of his life, not ever. As for emails, he probably had people to send those for him. He was from a previous generation, one that used telephones to make calls. Someone that believed in the importance of the face-to-face. The shaking of hands. If anyone was going to leave a note, it would be this guy. Coombes could almost imagine the large, looping cursive a man like this would’ve produced, full of confidence and entitlement.“This is the sixth in two months.”He’d finally said it out loud.Grace paused, her eyes moving slowly over his face.“You think there’s a serial out there posing kills as suicides?”It sounded crazy when she said it back to him. Maybe it was, but that didn’t make it any less possible. The rich were dying, and not from the usual causes. He turned away from her gaze, back to the body. It was easier to look at Vandenberg’s corpse than Grace’s face right then.She didn’t buy it. The doubt was there, even some humor. She was treating it like a joke. Grace preferred to be the one with the oddball theory, he was the straight man. He was the senior partner. His job was to be the voice of reason, the hand on the leash.He looked at the items on the nightstand.A telephone, a lamp, and a hotel branded notepad. Next to that, the items Vandenberg had added. Theoretically, anyway. A large wine glass, a cell phone, an alligator skin wallet, and two silver dollars. Coombes didn’t see a lot of silver dollars, but he’d found that people often kept hold of them like they were lucky charms. The coins hadn’t done Vandenberg any good, that was for sure. Eisenhower looked off, unimpressed, toward the door. The glass had a small ring of wine residue at the bottom, but no visible trace of powder. Sometimes people would grind