The Midas Bomb

The Midas Bomb: "Castilblanco engages the world beyond his cases…. Bravo to The Midas Bomb: Its explosion certainly has my attention!"—White Cat

Angels Need Not Apply: This book is just plain awesome!—Dave

Teeter-Totter between Lust and Murder: A tightly written political thriller with lots of twists and turns.—Duncan

Aristocrats and Assassins: …a textbook example of a self-contained story that is part of a series…leaves the audience, satisfied, fulfilled, and looking forward to the next big adventure.—GoodBadBizarre

The Collector: "Art theft and child sexual abuse…. The Collector has successfully merged these two criminal activities to create the latest in the NYPD homicide detectives Chen and Castilblanco series."—Bookbuzz

*The first edition of The Midas Bomb is still available as a trade paperback. All other books are e-books.

Want to read about more C & C cases? Read Pop Two Antacids and Have Some Java, a collection of short stories. Castilblanco’s first case as a homicide detective, The Case of the Carriageless Horse, appears in World Enough and Crime.

And don’t miss #6 in the series, Family Affairs: Castilblanco sets out to prove his cousin is innocent of murdering her ex-boyfriend, but C & C become embroiled in a much bigger case. Coming soon!

Dedication

To my wife Deidre, who has with great patience tolerated my idiosyncrasies all these years. Her love for New York City matches her verve for living life to the fullest. She always carries that New York City state of mind with her, making her one of those exotic and alien creatures known as New Yorkers. Dee, this one’s for you.

Part One

Sunday

Human history becomes more and more a race between education and catastrophe.

–H. G. Wells

Chapter One

Sunday, 2:05 a.m.

Near the pier at the end of West 23rd Street, a stooped figure sat at water’s edge and stared at eddies in the Hudson River. He thought of better times as his trembling, arthritic hand caressed the matted hair of his dog. The slap of waves against dirty pylons played soft percussion to muted sounds of traffic in the distance. The water was slick with moonlight.

Old veteran Walter Jones yearned for a drink. It was not a desperate yearning but an ache inside, a need that nagged no matter what he was doing. As the need increased, unwanted memories would start to come into focus, something he tried to avoid at all costs.

The water wasn’t the solution. He wasn’t ready for that, although it might bring him peace. His dog needed him. No one else did.

He saw something in the water near the dock. Garbage? His keen eyes, although bloodshot, were 20-20. He focused. No, it’s a body!

Off the end of the pier, a hand had risen in the water, half in shadow, as if some ancient, drowned mariner walked along the bottom on his way home to port. Dark blood smudged the hand and face that followed it in spite of the solvent properties of the toxic water.

***

Oxygen-starved lungs took in pungent, cold air. Colin Murphy fought for his life.

He now knew what his ER patients felt like. He could imagine the nurse’s triage: Three gunshot wounds, two still bleeding. BP 90 over 60. Shock setting in.

Self-diagnosis was his way of admitting he didn’t know whether he would make it. He wanted to.

Dylan Thomas’ bold lines played like timpani rolls in his head as he gulped for air. Yet he raged not only at the dying of the light. He cursed the SOB who shot him and hoped he would live long enough to find him.

Yeats, Thomas, Joyce, Shaw—a host of poets and dramatists had plumbed the depths of the human condition, from despair to bawdy humor.

They all had something in common, except Thomas, thought Murphy in Gaelic, his native tongue. They’re dead Irishmen. As I’ll soon be.

His love of poetry buoyed him more than his tired muscles. Although he was a strong swimmer, the slow but continued loss of blood sapped his strength. Arms and legs had become lead weights that tried to drag him down into the cold, murky water. Hyperthermia could win over blood loss and drowning. He called on every reserve of strength.

Before he hit water, before bullets tore into him, he had been in top physical shape. Jogging, laps in the pool, time in the weight room—they all paid off now. Muscular, of medium height and weight, he had the stamina of a boxing middleweight. Where others might sink below the gentle waves of the Hudson, he managed to keep afloat.

He had gone from pylon to pylon as he tried to find a way up. Finally, a crude ladder. Someone had hammered horizontal two-by-fours into one pylon. He pulled himself up and fell onto the dock, spent and ready to meet his Maker.

An odd thought to have, he told himself. How do you know it won’t be fire and brimstone for you, my lad? Mum always used to say in jest you were going straight to hell, and the parish priest backed her opinion in every mass you ever attended.

He sprawled on the dock for several minutes. Redolent breath and a wet, cold nose brought him to his senses. The dog whined.

He heard the clump of heavy heels on old boards and opened his eyes enough to see cowboy boots with worn leather and frayed stitching about to succumb to the struggle of holding them together. He couldn’t turn his head higher to see the man’s face.

***

Crackles, let the fellow sleep. He found his drink for tonight. We need to find ours. Come to think of it, maybe he has some on him.

Walter, not a large man, struggled to roll the drunk over and started to frisk him, searching for a bottle. The drunk didn’t have strength to resist. But not a sot!

Son of a bitch! Crackles, this bro’s been shot. Gotta find someone to help him.

The dog barked its approval and licked the dying man’s face.

Yeah, I hear ya, but problem is, this ain’t Iraq. I can’t just call medics in for one of my wounded boys. This here’s the Big Rotten Apple. Nobody’s gonna believe a street bum.

The dog whined again and tugged at his master’s sleeve. He patted his old friend on the head with the other hand and chuckled. But the dying man’s moan returned him to the serious business of saving a life.

OK, I know, civic duty and all that. Still, it might be a waste of time and put me on the wrong side of the law. This guy’s on Death’s doorstep. He also might be Mafia or someone equally bad. Maybe we should skedaddle. The dog barked several times again in protest. All right, you convinced me, you mangy mutt. We may regret it, but let’s see who we can find. Better yet, you stay with him, while I try to find some help. Keep him alive, boy, you hear me now?

***

The boots clumped away until all Murphy heard was the low whining of the dog as it nestled beside him. Waves against pylons below continued their soft percussive background to a troubled night. Once the dog stood and put his nose to the breeze. A whimper was followed by a low growl. But he soon grew tranquil and curled up beside Murphy again.

The doctor succumbed to the darkness invading his mind.

Dylan Thomas never had three bullets in him, he thought. No matter how hot my rage, I’m not melting these leads. Maura, where are you?

***

Across the city, Michael Alan Hopper, Navy SEAL, spoke into his cell phone.

Ash, I may have picked up a tail. Worse comes to worst, I left a USB memory stick for you in the glove compartment of the rental car. It’s in a parking garage near Tribeca Square. You know the one.

The woman at the other end of the line mumbled some words and Hopper ended the call.

He was finishing his current tour of duty on loan to the Department of Homeland Security. A strange assignment, but it made his wife happy. It meant he had time for her and the kids. It also meant he was usually home in his bed every night.

But New York City never was home to him. He always found it uncomfortable here compared to other big cities in the world. Even the best, like Paris, Boston, or San Francisco, made him feel claustrophobic. Manhattan’s impersonal and oppressive skyscraper canyons were the worst. His wife Jin-Kyong understood that, although she was a city girl.

He had grown up in Des Moines, Iowa, about as far from the ocean as you can be without being in the middle of Mongolia. Even before he started to help his father and brothers with farm chores, he knew he yearned for something else. That yearning led him to enlist. The Navy soon discovered he possessed many special talents and a quick mind. He also had his good share of luck, escaping death in both Afghanistan and Iraq, again far from the ocean and in the middle of the action. His tour in Korea even provided him with a wife who loved and understood him.

Their little house in Clifton, New Jersey, balanced city and country life in that ambiguous neutral zone called suburbia. He enjoyed his summer vegetable garden when he was home long enough to take care of it; around borders and window boxes of their little house his wife tended to her camellias, roses, and other annuals and perennials. She would have liked to live in the city, yet she felt happy because he and the kids were. And she could see the skyline of Manhattan from their little patio on a clear night.

Marriage is all about compromise, he thought. Jin-Kyong has more than met me half way in my choice of career and place to live. I compromise by attending church with her and the children and taking them to Seoul every other year so she can see her family.

He thought of his immediate family as he entered an alley to cut over to the next street. He guessed he had lost the tail. He’d never seen the person, but he had a sixth sense about such things, a sense sharpening its acuity as he walked through the cold city at 2 a.m.

Time to be home, Michael. Home to your family.

He stopped and looked both ways, to the street he came from and to the other end of the alley. Shadows swallowed moonlight as it trickled from the tops of skyscrapers. The smothering darkness made him nervous. He found his cell and made another call.

I think I lost the tail. I’m going to double back and get the car.

When Michael looked back along the alley again, a small, shadowy figure entered from the street. He knew this must be the person who had followed him. The newcomer wore a dirty wide-brimmed Aussie-type hat and a soiled gray raincoat reaching all the way to the ground.

A disguise? Or a homeless person collecting discarded clothing? But then he wouldn’t be a tail, would he?

The tail floated towards him across the paving stones. The raincoat fluttered a little in the breeze and gave the approach a phantom quality that raised hair on the back of his neck.

Easy, Michael. You’ve faced worse than this scarecrow figure. Keep your head about you, man.

Can I help you? he said as the tail approached.

The figure stopped some six feet away from him. He didn’t look all that threatening and said nothing. The hat hid the face in shadows. The two stood still for a moment, each contemplating what their next step would be. The figure then spread his arms away from his sides, adding to the appearance of a scarecrow.

Hopper became angry. Expecting the worst, he started to scream expletives at his tormenter that became buried in a sermon about muggers and what he could do to them. He hoped his nemesis was a thief who had nothing to do with the photos on the memory stick.

But the scarecrow stood its ground.

Without warning, Hopper lunged. His adversary ducked aside, hitched up the raincoat, did a complete turn, and kicked Hopper in the face. The crunch of jaw bone made night turn to day and added to his anger. His throat stab missed its mark. A well-aimed kick to the solar plexus was deflected.

Too slow! The years have taken their toll. I should have retired.

The hat tilted back. Recognition made him pause. The stranger attacked with a quick kick to the groin that Hopper didn’t see coming. When he fell, writhing in pain and cursing his stupidity for being out-maneuvered, the mugger walked over to the side of the alley where cinder blocks were stacked by a dumpster. He chose one.

The Navy man’s last thoughts focused on its trajectory as the scarecrow swung it towards his head.

Jin-Kyong!

The New York City canyons closed around him forever.

Chapter Two

Sunday, 6:20 a.m.

Over here, Sarge.

I turned toward the young voice. The uniformed cop was maybe a couple of years out of Academy. Heard good things about him, though, so I was light on criticism.

Sergeant Castilblanco to you, Officer Heath.

Strode towards the young man. Halfway there, I smelled the stench of death. My eyes took in the entire scene at a glance. Saw the body.

Blunt force trauma to the head. Standard cadaveric urine and bowel release.

ME have a TOD? I said.

Two to three a.m. is his best guess.

The dead man was face down on the alleyway’s dirty paving stones. He was dressed for a night on the town—a well-tailored tuxedo, expensive black shoes. Some gray hair had begun to mix with the black around his ears. He looked like he was in good physical shape. His profile, from what I could see, looked familiar.

Any ID?

The uniform handed me his PDA. The efile assigned to the victim already contained a number of items. Navy. On leave. He raised a plastic bag with a piece of paper inside. The ID and this were the only things on him.

I noted the paper had an equation on it: LV = L.

Meaningless, I thought. Frowned when I read the ID info. Turned the corpse over. Michael Alan Hopper, you’ve come back to haunt me.

This isn’t our jurisdiction, I told the uniform. Did anyone call NCIS?

Yes sir. They said he was on loan to DHS, although they’ll pick up the body after we process the case. I guess they don’t get up this early.

I usually don’t either if I’m only going to the office. Scratched my head, trying to figure out why this time the Feds, particularly DHS, didn’t come in like gangbusters and take charge.

Maybe he was out for a night on the town. Not too likely he was on duty in New York City.

Maybe he was cruising, trying to get laid, said the cop, as if he had read my mind.

Studied the situation for a moment.

Where Heath was trim and muscular, a regular attendee at a gym, I was showing a thickening around the waist and the amorphous facial features of a man nearing middle age, but not there yet. My gym trips were less frequent now. A steady diet of fast food and strong coffee weren’t doing well for my insides either.

Heath and I are at different places in our lives’ journeys. But what about Hopper? No more journey for him.

Given DHS and NCIS lack of interest, that might be the case. Still, I don’t think so. I wouldn’t bother explaining to Heath how I knew that. Looked along the alley. All right, we treat it like any other homicide until someone tells us otherwise. I have a bad feeling about this one, maybe because the Feds should be involved and don’t want to be.

Heath nodded. We were interrupted by my cell phone’s ring tone. Took the message and turned to Heath.

I have another homicide. Busy morning. Wait for the body wagon. Email me a message with your report attached. I’ll either check it on my PDA, or look at it back at the precinct.

***

By that time, a small crowd of curious onlookers had formed behind police tape surrounding the crime scene. They weren’t rowdy and kept their distance, mostly because the TV truck for Channel 7 was now on site and cameras were rolling. Sometimes the cameraman would pan to the crowd, and they would wave as if they were in Times Square watching Good Morning America.

Ducked under the tape and had a microphone stuck in my face.

Any comments for our viewers, Sgt. Castilblanco?

Never liked intrusions from news media. Still knew having them in my face was better than the alternative. In dictatorships and in many pretend democracies, the only media are official ones. In the US, news is also often biased. Many outlets and news services have their own agenda, especially in politics, where different cable news channels, for example, often have an ax to grind, whether they admit it or not. Even ABC’s Channel 7 wasn’t independent. The entire network was owned by Disney, but in most cases their bias focused on marketing Disney products instead of providing distorted news reports.

I liked Pam Stuart, the Channel 7 crime reporter, though—she was a gutsy woman and good looking besides. I’d dated her a few times, and she was looking for a lot more than news then. But we didn’t click, so I didn’t pursue it.

You’re more beautiful now than back then, I mused. But just as annoying.

Brushed back my hair a little and tried to put on a professional face for the camera. I was a little jowly now from all the fast food. Knew Stuart would put my face on every TV screen during the 12 o’clock news. Crooks I’d put away in prison would have a fine time giving me the finger and spitting in my direction. But it would make my Lieutenant happy if I wasn’t seen scowling at or browbeating the press.

Had to admit I found it difficult to browbeat Stuart. She was good at her job, a true professional who had paid her dues reporting on some grisly crimes during her career, somehow making it news and not chronicles from a slaughterhouse. She looked for the human element in cases she reported on and pursued them until she found it, often returning to a case after cops had thrown in the towel.

I guess that’s what they mean by investigative reporting.

We have a vic with blunt force trauma to the head. It’s not pretty. We’ve only begun the investigation.

Any name yet?

Yes, but I’m not releasing it until I check things out. Thinking of family members too. Fair ‘nough?

Sure. Stuart turned off the microphone. I made sure she did. Anything off record, Rollie?

Rollie was for Rolando—she’d earned the right to use it. Be patient. Get your shots. You’ll have more info for the noon news. How you doing, by the way?

Muddlin’ along, not getting any younger. You look good, though. Working out?

She’d overlooked my hunched shoulders and tired expression. I stopped smoking some years earlier and felt healthy enough. Yet I knew she was being nice. Where the years had treated her well, they hadn’t helped me.

Glanced back at the cadaver. Michael Alan Hopper was the same age.

It’s clear who’s in better shape now, I thought sadly.

Just chasing bad guys and padding my pension. Maybe I can enjoy it one day. Take care.

Struggled into my little squad car and took a bite from the Snickers I’d left perched on the seat. Breakfast. Yet I still needed coffee. Found the thermos and poured a cup.

Glanced at the ME and forensics reports on my PDA. Lots of details on the state of the cadaver and the MO, but no surprises.

In spite of what one saw on numerous TV shows, CSIs and MEs only help