Unfinished Death Read online

  Jane’s first thought was that Devinder was half-cocked. Then suddenly, she clearly heard his voice without seeing his lips moving.

  “If I’m half-cocked,” he said, grinning, “then what does that make you?”

  “Shit,” Jane uttered, with no heaviness attached to it and without any timbre coming from her vocal chords. “I can hear you.” Jane noticed that she could move her hands off the wicker chair more easily and that a modicum of lightness enveloped her. “Is this a dream?”

  “What do you think?”

  “I think that in a dream when you look into someone’s eyes, they’re flat with no past, present or future behind them.”

  “And now, when you look into my eyes, are they flat?”

  Jane saw the three-dimensional pulse behind Devinder’s eyes. “No.”

  “So, given your criteria, this is no dream.”

  “And given the fact that your name is on the board at Headquarters…” Jane felt her heart sink.

  Devinder moved from the railing to a wicker chair beside Jane that seemed to appear out of nowhere. He turned the chair, so he was facing her. “You’re not supposed to be here, Jane. Your light is too bright.” Devinder gestured with his left hand to the back of Jane’s neck, pulling her hair away and revealing a pinpoint shaft of brilliant white light that shone like a precise radar beam. “Mine is much less,” he offered, turning down his shirt collar. A dimmer beacon of light jetted from his neck. “It’s the last connection we have with the physical reality that we leave behind. The closer we get to the next level of transformation, the weaker the light becomes. When we accept that we are dead, we are truly free and homeward bound.”

  Jane looked out at the people milling on the porch and lawn. To her, it looked like a disjointed Bergman film. The divergent assortment of souls was evident—everyone from a farmer in overalls and a pinstripe-suited executive to a toddler playing with a beach ball and a rough-looking biker. Each had the same pinpoint of light emanating from the back of their neck, with varying degrees of illumination.

  Devinder explained to her that a soul only comes to this place when a person dies suddenly, violently, or isn’t ready to accept his or her demise. “We have a ninety-eight-year-old woman upstairs who still can’t believe she’s dead,” he said, shrugging of his shoulders. Jane noticed that the little girl with the beach ball had the least amount of light coming from her neck. Devinder read her thoughts. “She’s almost ready to transition to the next level. Pretty soon, we’ll look over there and she’ll be gone.”

  Jane ran her fingers through her hair. “So what in the hell am I doing here?”

  “Perhaps…so you can help me?”

  “Help you what?”

  “Remove the shame of my death.”

  Jane felt a jolt of judgment. “Hey, I can’t change history. You’re the one who chose to get naked, cover yourself in kiddie porn and chase three bottles of drugs with a bottle of whiskey.”

  Devinder held Jane’s hand tightly in his left hand. “You know I didn’t do that, Jane.”

  Jane looked into his eyes. She could see the truth. And in a split second, she saw the crime against Devinder manifested before her…

  Devinder is relaxing on his living room couch, reading. His pretty wife with the flowing blonde hair brings him a glass of water into which she has crushed five tablets of Ambien and five tablets of Valium. He fights sleep, but finally succumbs to it, as his wife watches from the kitchen. She checks his pulse and then walks quickly to the front door, opens it and ushers in a person. The twentysomething worker appears, carrying a large bag. The two of them lift Devinder off the couch and carry him into the master bedroom. His wife exits briefly, as the young stud opens his large bag and brings out one hideous photo and magazine after another of child pornography. He strips Devinder of his clothes and then carefully arranges the collection of porn around his nude body.

  The wife then reappears with a bottle of whiskey, three orange prescription bottles and a large envelope. She pours a tall glass of whiskey into a bedtime water glass and dissolves ten tablets each of Ambien, Valium and Oxycodone into the amber liquor. Once satisfied with the mixture, the young man pulls Devinder’s unconscious body up to a sitting position and pries open his mouth. The wife pours in the fatal concoction. Devinder gags but the young man manipulates his throat little by little to encourage the drugged man to swallow. Ten minutes later, the deadly brew is drained. They drop his body back onto the bed and the wife takes what is left in the whiskey bottle, dripping it over her husband’s face and chest before laying the bottle next to his body.

  She puts on a pair of latex gloves, reaches into the large envelope the young man brought, withdraws a handwritten note and slides it between the fingers on Devinder’s left hand. Reaching back into the envelope, she removes a pen and places it next to his body. The young man amends the placement by putting the pen into Devinder’s right hand. The three orange prescription bottles positioned next to his body completes the fabricated suicide.

  They wait in silence, as Devinder’s body begins to spasm, and foam appears around the edges of his mouth. They hold him down, as the wife pinches off his nostrils with her red acrylic fingernails. The spasms continue in violent waves until they finally stop. She checks his pulse. “Nothing.” She stands up and pulls the young man toward her, with a look of conquest and wicked seduction. In turn, he hungrily kisses her, ripping off her shirt. They fall into the Indian rug at the foot of the bed, blinded by hedonistic rage, devouring each other like wild animals after a good kill…

  Jane felt physically sick and turned away from Devinder. Looking out toward the grassy expanse, she spotted the toddler with the beach ball. The little girl stared at Jane, smiled and then dissolved into thin air.

  “I can’t do that yet,” Devinder stated, acknowledging the child’s ascent.

  Jane turned to Devinder. “Why did she kill you?”

  “I loved Cath deeply. Cath deeply loved my money.”

  Cath? Jane thought. Who the fuck calls themselves Cath?

  Devinder read her thoughts. “It’s short for Catherine.”

  “Not catheter, huh? What happened to divorce?”

  “My family is Hindu and extremely traditional. We are devout in our beliefs. No drinking. No smoking. No divorce.”

  “No fun for her,” Jane intoned. “I guess whatever drew her to you—whatever exotic allure you triggered in her—wore off.”

  “My family’s import business has always been timeconsuming. I traveled a lot to India on buying trips. She used to come with me. I used to buy her the most expensive sandalwood incense on the market. It would linger in the air for hours after it was extinguished. When she told me she wasn’t interested in joining me on my trips, I told her to burn the sandalwood. That way, she could remember me when I was gone.”

  “But she found something more alluring than sandalwood to occupy her time when you were away, right?”

  “Yes.” He responded, without a hint of hatred.

  “Why do you accept it?”

  “Because I accept my karma. When I was alive, I lived with an honest heart, devoted to my family and honoring my wife. I sought my salvation through good deeds and self-control, as any good Hindu would.”

  “Excuse me, Devinder, but you’re a fucking saint. If I was in your shoes, I’d be sitting up here looking for someone to cap the worthless slut.”

  “Bad karma, Jane.”

  So she wanted out, Jane thought. But there’s no life insurance paycheck from suicide. Devinder looked at her and she clearly understood Cath’s plan and expectations. A cultural taint. Detective Miles used that term when he first mentioned the suicide to Jane. The white woman feels constricted by the conventions of the exotic culture she probably thought was one long tantric orgy and then decides to use those conventions to her favor. Should call it a cultural shakedown.

  “My soul won’t rest,” Devinder stated, the aroma of sandalwood thickening the air as he leaned toward J
ane. “And my family will forever bear the shame of my death. It will kill my mother years before her time.” He gently grasped Jane’s hand. “Is it possible that you have been sent to me to save my soul?”

  “I’m a cop, not a priest.”

  “I don’t need a priest. I need a cop. A good cop. If you can show my death for what it was, you can lift the shame and I can accept my karma and my fate, and move on.” Devinder’s eyes dimmed with concern. “But you have miles of trouble.”

  Jane considered the obstacle of Detective Miles. Miles of trouble made sense. But she also understood something else.

  Devinder moved his left hand to Jane’s neck and pulled her hair away, exposing the pinpoint light. “It’s getting dimmer, Jane. You’re in danger.”

  5

  Jane startled awake, shocked to find that it was already 8:00 A.M. on Wednesday. She remembered everything—especially Devinder’s ominous warning. Bolting out of bed, she quickly showered and grabbed her morning coffee. She didn’t think through what she was about to do because she knew that if she did, she’d be smart and reconsider the idea. The whole while, she had to keep in mind that a dead man was orchestrating this case.

  Just after 9:00 A.M., she rolled to a stop in front of Mrs. Bashir’s opulent home in Cherry Creek. A Range Rover was parked in the driveway. Jane walked up the driveway and checked the temperature of the SUV’s hood. In the old West, law enforcement checked the heat of the dying coals from the criminal’s campfires. In the modern world, one checked the heat of a suspect’s hood to determine approximately how long the vehicle had been parked. Based on Jane’s seasoned sense of hood temp, she figured the SUV had been there no longer than 30 minutes.

  She walked around the Range Rover, scanned the windows and noted some movement in the kitchen inside the house. Carefully crawling amidst the perfectly manicured shrubbery, Jane peered inside. There was Cath looking grave and grim, surrounded by what Jane deduced were Devinder’s truly grieving parents. The mother did indeed look frail, as if her world had crashed around her and she couldn’t see clear of the debris to escape. She stayed quiet, as her husband appeared to make what looked like emotional appeals to Mrs. B. The blonde vixen hung her head, wiping away the occasional counterfeit tear, while she cupped her forehead in her hand. The father moved briefly out of Jane’s point of view before reappearing at Cath’s side, hand outstretched with what was obviously a check.

  Cath turned away, even motioning with her crocodiletear-stained hankie, as if she were saying, “No, please. I just couldn’t accept that money!” But after the father pursued the matter with more vigor, Cath gave in and took the check. As Cath turned away, she caught sight of Jane framed in the window. Her mien changed from heartache to irritation, as she excused herself and crossed to the kitchen door.

  “Can I help you?” Cath’s voice was huskier than Jane imagined.

  Jane quickly flashed her shield. “Detective Jane Perry,” she stated with all the cop bravado she could rally at nine in the morning. “I knocked on your front door,” Jane lied, extricating herself from the shrubs, “but I guess you couldn’t hear.” She peered over Cath’s shoulder, trying to get a better look at Devinder’s parents.

  Cath closed the door, obviously wanting to keep her conversation with Jane private. “Detective Miles made no reference to you working this case.”

  “Really? Humph. That’s odd. There’s a gaggle of us down at Headquarters assigned to your husband’s case…“

  “A gaggle? What in the hell are you talking about?” She tossed her blonde locks over her shoulder and moved closer to Jane. Based on Jane’s first real world impressions—as opposed to the disincarnate visions of Cath killing her husband and then engaging in carnal sex with her hump of a boy toy—this was a woman who spent most of her time between the Pilates center and the day spa. Her toned body was lean and her tanned skin polished to perfection. Under the conservative white tunic, Jane spied a pair of tits that stationed a little too upright for her 40-something age.

  “Detective Miles is lead on the case, but we all work different angles.”

  “Angles?” she questioned, her come hither voice sounding more like “back off.” “There is only one issue and that is the child pornography my late husband shamed our family with.” Suddenly, the grieving widow reappeared on cue, complete with her manufactured facial distortions that attempted to convey dishonor with a capital D. Jane half-wished she could arrest the bitch for bad acting.

  “Right. The porn. Child porn,” Jane deadpanned. “Doesn’t get more shameful than that…“

  “It’s a curse, Detective Perry,” Cath interrupted, deciding that it was time to school Jane on the facts. “Not only did my husband corrupt his family’s bloodline, he made it so that I could no longer live in this beautiful home.”

  “Sorry? I don’t follow.”

  “A wife can’t live in the same place where her sick, twisted husband took his life. It’s asking too much.”

  The pieces began to click in Jane’s head. “Wow… and with a helluva real estate market these days. The house could be up for sale for six months and it still might not sell. Even then, you’d be lucky to get 60 percent of what you paid for it…”

  “Fortunately, I don’t have to worry about such things.”

  Now it was Jane’s turn to exercise her acting chops. “How’s that?”

  “My in-laws are very generous and understand my delicate situation.”

  Without realizing it, Cath exposed part of the personal check in her hand. Jane furtively glanced down and saw a four followed by six very nice zeros. Even during the booming days of Colorado real estate, this tony mini-manor wasn’t worth that much. Jane reckoned the additional amount was for Mrs. B.’s pain and suffering. Consider it a little somethin’-somethin’ to take the edge off the shame.

  Jane peered over Cath’s shoulder. “You know, we don’t have any interviews with your late husband’s parents. I’d love to talk to them…“

  “Are you crazy?” The sexual barracuda had been replaced by an all-business broad. “They are beyond distraught. This whole thing came out of nowhere! None of us expected it! And besides, Detective Miles promised me that there would be no tasteless follow-up with the investigation.”

  Tasteless, Jane thought. Not a word Miles bandies around. Jane knew that what Cath really meant was that she had it on good faith by her good ol’ broken down, over-the-hill, alcoholic, vice cop that this purposely prurient, suicide set-up would stay confined to the walls of Denver Headquarters and not bleed into too many departments that might leak this deviant case to the media. Yeah, that would just fuck up everything, Jane reasoned. Even psychopaths such as Mrs. B. knew that if the local press picked up this story, her life would be one flame eater away from a circus. No, deep scrutiny was not wanted here. Better to take the dirty money, meet your trashy, 20-something fleabag with six-pack abs outside the county line and disappear into obscurity.

  Jane’s expression must have concerned Cath because if Jane read the double-D tramp’s body language correctly, she was exhibiting a threatening stance.

  “I think you need to leave, Detective Perry.” Cath took another purposeful step toward Jane, her Botoxed forehead unable to show the true scorn she really felt at that moment. “I don’t need this to get complicated.”

  Jane stared into Cath’s eyes. She wished thoughts were as transparent as they were in the middle world with Devinder. But even though she couldn’t hear Cath’s thoughts, she could patently feel them. It was the stuff that raised the hair on your arms and sent a jolt down your spine. You can’t hear the threat but your body reacts just the same. This is one desperate woman, Jane surmised. And nothing was going to complicate her plan at this critical juncture.

  Jane held Cath’s gaze a little longer. She could outlast anybody in a stare down and she’d perfected the intimidating narrowing of her eyes to complete the menacing effect. Finally, Jane nodded, wished Mrs. B. a nice day and walked back to her Mustang. But on
her way there, she couldn’t help but see something sitting at the curb—something that could be important. When Cath returned inside, Jane quickly collected the evidence. She had one more stop before going to Headquarters.

  By the time Jane arrived back at Headquarters, she hoped she had enough to convince her boss, Sergeant Morgan Weyler, to take a hard look at Devinder’s case. At least, she figured, she had something to cast doubt on the suicide. Right now, doubt was all Jane needed before Miles buttoned up the suicide and sent the merry widow on her way.

  But Jane smelled trouble when she approached Weyler’s office and saw Miles seated across the desk from her boss.

  “What in the hell’s goin’ on, Jane?” Miles erupted. Jane could smell the booze on his breath.

  “We got a call an hour ago from Devinder Bashir’s widow,” Weyler offered in his usual calming tone.

  “Her exact words?” Miles interrupted with a sharp edge, “’Who’s the bitch named Jane and why is that cunt coming to my house unannounced?’”

  Jane was cornered. “Humph. Well, looks like I’m crossing her off the Christmas card list!”

  Miles was dogged. “She also wanted to know why we had a gaggle of detectives workin’ her case. I assured Mrs. Bashir that it was just me workin’ the case. At least, I thought I was workin’ it solo! Since when did homicide start hijackin’ vice cases?”

  “When the suicide is really a homicide.” Jane let that gem linger in the air.

  Weyler trusted Jane enough to wave off Miles’ blustering indignation. “What proof do you have?” he asked.

  Jane produced three orange prescription bottles. “I saw these through a clear plastic garbage bag at the curb of the Bashir’s house. Trash is still open season, right?” Miles looked wary, but Weyler nodded. “So, I took a look at them real closely. The date is almost one year ago and if you look at Devinder’s name on the bottle… ” Jane handed a bottle to each of the men, “you can see how the lettering was skillfully duplicated with a computer and literally pasted over the real owner of these drugs.”