MY BEST AND LAST: A Romantic Suspense
Chapter 1
The King of Wands represents bold leadership, authority, and calm in the face of adversity.
DANNY
The murder scene stinks. I mean that literally. Something smells so disgusting that I’m gagging into my coffee cup. I’ve been on the force twenty-eight years and it’s rare that I can’t handle the smell of a dead body.
“It’s too damn early in the morning for this, Biz. I almost puked my Egg McMuffin.”
Detective Juanita Bizzell, or “Biz,” as she was known around the precinct, gestures to a corner. “Check it out. The rookie CSI tossed his cookies when he saw this.” She gestured to the victim.
Biz flips open her notebook. “What we have here is one Paul Michael Davis, age 58, CEO of PMD Brokerage and married to Irina Danova Davis.”
“An anonymous tip came in about an hour ago. Someone heard shouting and observed a car racing away from the scene. The tipper said she was a neighbor and identified the victim.” Detective Bizzell held up a magazine. “See this?” On the front cover is a photograph of the victim with the caption, “Atlanta’s 2022 Broker Of The Year.”
I compare the photograph to the victim. “Kind of hard to make a positive ID with that shoe stuck in his eye socket.”
“That’s not just any old shoe, Danno. That’s a Manolo Blahnik.”
“So?” I raise my eyebrows and shrug. “What’s a Manolo Blah…blah?” I have no interest in women’s shoes. Or clothes. Or women period. After my last divorce, I’m done with the “unfairer” sex.
Biz laughs. “Blahnik. A shoe like this runs over a thousand dollars.”
“A pair of shoes? On what planet is a pair of shoes worth a thousand dollars?”
“Charlotte asking for more alimony again?” As usual, Biz hits the nail on the head. She is a great detective. Unless she is detecting me, and then she’s a pain in my ass.
I picked up a bagged wine bottle from the coffee table. “2009 Chateau Margeaux. That’s over a thousand dollars a bottle. Looks like Mr. and Mrs. Davis had very expensive tastes.”
Another evidence bag on the coffee table contains a small envelope of white powder. “Coke? Heroin?”
Biz shakes her head. “Could be but I don’t think so. The lab boys will have to confirm but I think it’s poison.” She touches the victim’s face with a gloved hand and pulls down his bottom lip. “See that foam around his lips?” She removes a cup from an evidence bag. A small amount of Chateau Margeaux swirls in the bottom of the cup. “Smell that.” She puts the cup under my nose.
“Almonds. Cyanide. Where’s the wife?”
Before Biz answers, a loud commotion breaks out in front of the house. Biz nods toward the shouting and banging. “You go. I’ll stay here to process the scene.”
At the front door, a tall barrel-chested man towers over a much smaller female police officer. The man dwarfs her, but she is solidly standing her ground. Her voice is firm and unyielding, “Sir, step back now or I will detain you.”
The man in the standoff with the police officer is Ivan Danovich, the reputed head of the Russian Mafia in Atlanta. A few years ago, I had headed up the team that disrupted a money laundering operation with ties to the Russian mob and several real estate developers. Danovich himself had not been charged thanks to some very expensive defense attorneys. I’m still pissed about it.
“This is my daughter’s house!” The man yells, shoving the officer out of the way, “I demand…”
I step up to the door just as the man bursts through, knocking me to the floor. Bowing his chest, the Russian growls, “Izveenee. Sorry, Sorry.”
I caught the police officer’s eye and shook my head. She nods and holsters her weapon.
“Mr. Danovich,” he said, “I’m Detective Daniel Chan.” Although Ivan Danovich had at least four inches and seventy-five pounds on me, I forced him back through the door and onto the front porch.
“You say your daughter lives here? What is your daughter’s name, Mr. Danovich?”
The angry man squints his eyes, and a slight smirk creases the corners of his mouth as he recognizes me. “Irina Danova,” his attitude condescending and defiant.
“Where is she? We need to speak with her. Mrs. Davis’s husband has been murdered.”
Ivan Danovich is unable to hide the smile that plays across his lips. He mutters, “Durak,” and turns to leave.
I grabbed his arm. “Where is she, Ivan? I’m sure you understand our need to speak with her and determine if Mr. Davis had any enemies who might want to harm him.”
The mobster breaks my grip and stomps across the porch, kicking over a potted geranium in the process. “My attorney will speak to you.”
“Ivan, I don’t think you understand the position your daughter is in. I’d really hate to arrest her on suspicion of murder and have her denied bail for being a flight risk. Which I will do if she is not at the precinct by 3:00 this afternoon.”
I slam the front door shut, but not before I hear something that sounded like, “Slovich.”
I had picked up a little Russian from my informant in Danovich’s organization. The Russian had called his son-in-law a fool and me a bastard.
The precinct is on speed dial. “Baker, I need a warrant for the arrest of Irina Danova Davis for the murder of Paul Davis. Stat. Have it on my desk in an hour.”