The One That Kills You

THE ONE THAT KILLS YOU C STREET MYSTERY BOOK 1 RICK ROTHERMEL The One That Kills You Kindle Edition Copyright © 2023 (As Revised) Rick Rothermel Rough Edges Press An Imprint of Wolfpack Publishing 9850 S. Maryland Parkway, Suite A-5 #323 Las Vegas, Nevada 89183 roughedgespress.com This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events, places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced by any means without the prior written consent of the publisher, other than brief quotes for reviews. eBook ISBN 978-1-68549-230-4 Paperback ISBN 978-1-68549-231-1 CONTENTS Join the Rough Edges Press Mailing List 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 Chapter 44 Chapter 45 Chapter 46 Chapter 47 Chapter 48 Chapter 49 Chapter 50 Chapter 51 Chapter 52 Chapter 53 Chapter 54 Chapter 55 Chapter 56 Chapter 57 Chapter 58 Acknowledgments A Look At Book Two: Join the Rough Edges Press Mailing List About the Author JOIN THE ROUGH EDGES PRESS MAILING LIST It’s no secret that you love books as much as we do. If you join the Rough Edges Press mailing list, you’ll stay up to date on our newest releases and discount offers. You’ll also get a FREE e-book copy of Levon’s Trade by Chuck Dixon. This book is dedicated to the memory of author Sue Grafton. ‘S’ is for ‘Story’. THE ONE THAT KILLS YOU 1 October 7, 1996 He’d never heard her scream. The final morning together for Ron and Annie Connors started the way their mornings always had…early, with a hot breakfast pastry and a cup of French Roast from the big, noisy brushed aluminum machine on the kitchen counter and some quiet intimate conversation before they began their morning rituals in advance of the start of their busy day. Ron was a popular figure and a respected name in the automotive aftermarket industry, his companies marketing hundreds of specialty items for the professional auto racing and civilian high-performance markets. He was more famous, though, as a racer. He was a legitimate ‘legend’ in that sport, famous worldwide for decades for his exploits in numerous facets of motorsports all his adult life and much of his adolescence before that. He still looked a lot like those early photos; his eyes bright, his jaw square, his tan deep and his hair jet black, just starting to silver at the temples—each element belying his sixty-eight years. Ron had the spoils to show for his efforts and successes. Trophies, plaques and awards certificates were visible in modest displays in his home and at their various business locations. He was always busy, and he traveled hundreds of thousands of miles yearly. He often wondered if his ‘legend’ status just meant that people had his number so that they could keep him busy ‘round the clock. Still, he knew he’d been richly blessed. He relished each challenge every time the phone rang. Ron called to Annie that he had the phone when it started ringing that morning, and he stayed on the line as they dressed for their day, as they’d done every morning in the last fourteen years. Now back downstairs in the kitchen looking at the still warm fax paper laying on the counter, initiated the discussion of the sales profile for the storm-ravaged pacific northwest states as Annie entered his peripheral vision. She carried his best suit jacket, destined for the dry cleaners down on Foothill, as she finger-waved and smiled. She left the top half of the Dutch door open to vent cooler air from the garage into the warm kitchen. In the next two minutes Ron cleaners down the hill as she approached the door to the garage and they finger-waved to one another. She looked as good as ever, youthful and vibrant at 52, with the style and demeanor of a well-kept second wife. Ron absently heard the garage door motor open before her minivan started and backed from the space. Ron was halfway through the discussion of a tire design when he heard the first strange noise from outside. It was an odd sound, really, a shrill cry of pain and shock totally alien to his years of experience with Annie. His mind went blank for a second, then it came to him. “NO!” he yelled, his mind suddenly filled with dread. “That bastard!” Ron disconnected from his call and started toward the garage, still carrying the cordless phone. As he crossed the threshold he realized that his handgun was in the console glove box of his pickup at the rear of the property. He ascended the brick steps in his sock feet and crossed the empty space. He saw her idling silver Astro van, drivers’ door wide open and lights on, as it coasted backwards until its rear bumper tapped the stone retaining wall at the edge of the driveway. Ron ran across the dark vacant garage space toward the first of the loud, awful ‘pops.’ His mind shifted into a strange slow-motion as he emerged from the garage. Then he saw Annie, her mouth agape and running red. The front of her modest beige suit ran red with blood as the attacker shot her again. She jumped a foot as the blast hit her, shattering the van window behind her. She started a slow slump to the ground before