A Promise Kept Read online

  A Promise Kept

  A Rick Carnes Cozy Mystery

  David Bishop

  Copyright © 2020 David M. Bishop.

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical without the express written permission of the author. The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials.

  FICTION: Except as otherwise provided for herein, this book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to actual events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  A Promise Kept

  This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. It may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you’re reading this eBook and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return it and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of the author.

  e-book ISBN is 978-1-7350464-0-2

  Print ISBN is 978-1-7350464-1-9

  Please visit David Bishop, his books and characters at

  www.davidbishopbooks.com.

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  Dedication

  This novel is dedicated to my family and all those who have read my novels. I appreciate your interest in my writings, and the faith you display by purchasing my stories. I trust you will enjoy this one. I would be pleased to hear from you after you read it.

  [email protected]

  In writing this and other stories, my aim is to create characters with whom readers can relate, like or hate, as they reach deep within the story to learn if those characters get what they deserve, are captured or saved, seduced or simply survive. The connecting magic of the author-character-reader triad rests in the fact that readers, like the characters living within the pages of fiction, have themselves endured trials and tribulations in their own lives.

  I would like to acknowledge all who have found their way into my life, challenging me and enriching me by their presence, goodness, and affection. And last, but certainly not least, this book, as with my others, is dedicated to those I love.

  Special thanks to the wonderful people who read early drafts and made suggestions which unfailingly enhance my stories. Thank you.

  A Sad Dedication

  Sadly, I also dedicate this novel to a fine man, my friend, Paul Ciance, who passed away during the time I was writing A Promise Kept. Paul was a career law enforcement officer, a loyal reader, and a cherished friend who this author will never forget.

  A Special Acknowledgement

  My special thanks to Robert M. Helfend, Attorney at Law, located in Malibu, California. His advice and counsel with some of the intricacies of California law with respect to homicides and related charges is greatly appreciated. In the event this fictional story has gotten any of that wrong, it is a failure by the author, not by Mr. Helfend.

  Contents

  Preface

  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

  Epilogue

  The Blackmail Club

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Book Reviews

  Other Stories by David Bishop

  About the Author

  Preface

  Death is final,

  for most, without memorial.

  The wind of the unnamed fifth season

  blows all things into silence.

  David Bishop

  1

  Angels Camp, California, and its surrounds are crammed with history. In the middle 1800s, immense wealth in gold was removed from its mountains and rivers. Famous writers like Mark Twain and Bret Harte wrote by candle and lamp in the mining shacks that pocked the hillsides and the tents that dotted the placer mined shorelines.

  For decades, in the fall, tourists have flocked to the area to be amazed by the beauty of death. To observe things once green struggling hopelessly against the decay brought by winds and temperatures. The leaves, yellow and red, fall to the ground. What only hours before were nature’s wonderments captured by lenses, are sadly ground by man and motor until no longer marvels. Their only redemption, a possible un-ceremonial future as unnoticed nutrients of the soil.

  None of these things brought me here—well, death did. That much was true. A death that occurred thousands of miles away. The death of Army Ranger, Sergeant Edmund Jones.

  It was the first of June 2020, when I entered Angels Camp, California. I came by bus. Alone. No one expected me to be there. No one other than Sergeant Edmund Jones. Jonesy was my friend. Not for long, but for keeps. We killed a lot of men during our month together in Syria. Quite a few of our own also went down. The enemy who fell were mostly members of the terrorist group Americans call ISIS. I can tell you firsthand, they’re tough fighters.

  I was with Jonesy’s squad in a position two klicks north of the army’s base camp. HQ in Qatar, the forward center for USCENTCOM, headquartered in Tampa, Florida, reported our base camp and surrounds to be low risk. The enemy didn’t get the memo.

  We came under chaotic attack from two sides. Some of our fatalities were likely from friendly fire. Whether or not Jonesy was hit by the friendly was unclear, either way he was KIA. It was the first time someone bought it while covering me. It felt lousy. Ugly. Confusing. The lousy was Jonesy being dead. In the movies, the saved guy always says something like, “I wish it would have been me, not my friend.” That’s bullshit. The ugly guilty part that hangs on your guts until it rots and passes as waste is you being happy it wasn’t you. “Yeah, confusing.”

  The enemy left as quickly as they came. They had swarmed in with the lowering sun at their backs. They left twenty minutes later with the sun in our faces. When the enemy quit firing, I belly crawled to Jonesy. There, in the mix of nature’s muck and Jonesy’s blood, he asked me t
o look in on his family.

  “They’ve got trouble.” It was the last thing I heard him say. The strain of getting the words out proved he’d been commanding his heart for the time needed to get it said. His final exhale trailed tight behind his last whispered word. His last act was his hand sliding off his stomach, and the small puff of dust that followed. Jonesy was gone.

  The last thing he heard was my promise that I’d do what he asked.

  Jonesy, I’m here in Angels Camp now.

  From what he said, the Jones family was neither the family of Archie Bunker, nor the Adams Family. And, from his stories, I knew his family wasn’t the Brady Bunch. Those were fictional families we all grew up with. Jonesy’s stories of his real family suggested they were part aristocratic, part cruelty, a bit turn of the century, and rural old-money wealthy, sprinkled with deviant behavior.

  I wouldn’t be in Angels Camp if it weren’t for Jonesy. Fact is, I wouldn’t be anywhere if it weren’t for Sergeant Edmund Jones.

  The bus station in Angels Camp, California, was across from a flat rustic wall of businesses. In the center, a neon sign: Bill’s Tavern. It wasn’t much of a name, but enough to tell me the business of the establishment—what more can you expect from a sign.

  I tossed my travel bag down from the bus to the sidewalk and squeezed the driver’s shoulder. “Thanks.”

  He nodded.

  The stories Jonesy told during our time together resulted in my deciding not to rush right up to his family’s front door. My initial plan was born from my training: reconnaissance, adapt, improvise.

  I got off and hefted my bag up from the sidewalk. A sudden clap of a distant train captured the air as I jaywalked toward the tavern. The clack of the tracks grew fainter, likely headed north toward Sacramento or perhaps for the port at Frisco.

  Taverns tend to either be full of light and action, for those who seek loud distraction, or soft lighting and easy music for drinkers wanting to wallow in whatever crowded them when they were alone. Bartenders and wait staff fall into a similar either-or thing. Across America and around the world, you find the bars Sinatra sang about: Set ‘em up Joe, I got a little story I think you should know.

  These establishments have empathetic listening bartenders who regularly learn their own problems are less than those carried by the people for whom they poured. The other category of taverns feature cleavage for patrons opting for the quiet stimulation they hope will temporarily shield them from their recurring memories.

  Bill’s Tavern was illuminated by indirect lighting and one large-screen television high over the bar. The bartender, clearly not the pudgy tell-me-your-troubles type, headed toward me. She featured cleavage. Her pupils were dark. The muted lighting made them appear black. Her straight white teeth flashed as she chewed gum.

  When she got closer, I read her name badge—Susan. She didn’t fit the lyrics of the bluegrass song, Black-Eyed Susan. She smiled but didn’t say anything.

  I settled on a bar stool. “A draft, please.”

  Susan’s soft voice brought my head up. Her mouth gave her gum a rest. “What’s your call?”

  She was close enough to reveal her eyes were green, her cleavage considerable, and her eyebrows matched her black shoulder length hair. Her face was centered by a right-sized mouth and a nicely shaped nose.

  “Whatever you pour a lot of is fine.”

  She grabbed a frosty mug and faced a row of draft pulls. A neat bow on her backside snugged her bar apron at her waist. When she turned, I noticed her apron fully hid her black shorts. She dropped a bar coaster in front of me and centered it with a cold Coors.

  “Don’t know you.” She set her hands on her hips. “Passing through or moving in?”

  “Read about your town. Thought I’d look around, then decide.”

  “Please don’t tell me you came to find out if Angels Camp really has angels.” She ended the comment with an expression that wasn’t a smile but wasn’t a snicker.

  “Just seemed a nice place. Thought I’d find out.”

  I picked up the frosty mug, pausing to watch a sliver of ice ease down into the froth. When I lowered it, Susan was carrying a draft toward a bulky uniformed officer who was still settling himself on a stool at the far end of the bar.

  The officer must’ve been a regular because she brought his brew without first asking what’ll ya have. She didn’t smile at the officer. He smiled at her.

  When I was part way through my second Coors, the officer stood. My peripheral vision told me he was headed toward me. He might’ve been on his way to the men’s room. A sign indicated it was down a hall to the left of where I sat.

  He wasn’t. The officer set his glass on the bar beside me and his backside on the stool facing his beer. The patch on his shoulder revealed he was a member of the Angels Camp Police Department. His badge identified him as a sergeant. I guessed, given the size of the city, maybe its only police sergeant.

  I glanced at Susan. Her arms were crossed above her apron, her lips were pursed. She stayed silent, but her body language screamed. “Oh, no. Not again.”

  He twisted toward me. “New in Frogtown?”

  “What? I thought this was Angels Camp.”

  “Don’t be a smartass and don’t make me repeat myself. It’s my job to know about outsiders who find their way into town. Give. Who are you? Where you from? Why are you here?”

  “My name’s Rick Carnes, Sergeant. I’m from a lot of places. I’m here because I read about your town and thought I’d like to see it for myself.”

  “How long are you staying?”

  “Till I decide to leave, sir.”

  “That’s not good enough. You got family hereabouts?”

  “Look, Sergeant … sir, no disrespect. I’m an American citizen traveling and stopping where I choose. That’s just going to have to be good enough.”

  I swiveled my stool and faced my beer. Susan stood at the corner of my vision. Her hands were in front of her waist. She moved them toward the floor and pulsed them slowly. The motion suggested I should take it easy. Her expression supported that message.

  “I’m not through talking to you.”

  I looked over at the uniformed officer without turning my head or stool. “Yes, you are. I’m going to mind my own business and finish my drink. I’d be pleased to buy you a beer, but I’ve got nothing more to say, officer.”

  The sergeant reached his hand across my front, grabbed a fistful of my shirt, and spun me toward him.

  Using his momentum, I reached up from below his grip and applied a joint lock across the meridian point on the back of his wrist, pinning his hand to my chest. All in one motion, I bowed diagonally and drove him directly to the floor, applying a bind. My tactic activated sensors delivering pain beyond what most men have felt in their worst moment ever.

  He screamed.

  I leaned close to his face. “I’m sure you know grabbing my shirt was assault, Sergeant whatever your name is. If I release you, will you take your hand off me?”

  After he nodded, I released the pressure, stood, and got back on my stool. The other four patrons sitting at the bar were watching, mostly watching the sergeant. The same was true of two staff at the near end of the bar waiting for drinks they’d ordered for customers seated in booths or at tables.

  The sergeant rubbed the back of his hand before twice flexing it in and out of a fist. He grimaced, stood, and, without a statement, walked out of the tavern.

  Susan put her hand on my wrist. “That was impressive, but not wise.”

  “A simple case of assault. I’d done nothing and had the right to defend myself.”

  She smiled. “I was not speaking of right, but of wisdom.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Sergeant Abner Preminger.”

  Another man seated around the far curve in the bar, leaned back into view, and raised his empty mug in my direction. A sinewy man, skinny by comparison to the police sergeant.

  Susan left and I returned my a
ttention to my warming Coors.

  By the time I drained it, Sergeant Abner Preminger was back. This time he was braced by two other Angels Camp officers who looked like they hadn’t been in a scuffle since their days on the playground.

  I stood, cooperated, and glanced back to see Susan pull my duffle bag around behind the bar. Five minutes later I was handcuffed and in the back of the sergeant’s squad car. When we were inside the station, I was told the charges were assaulting an officer and resisting arrest.

  Police Chief Oscar Warner was on an open door we passed. A man sat at the desk inside. He looked up. One of the officers, the booking officer I imagined, led me toward a door in the back wall. I paused as we passed the chief’s office and stepped inside. Nothing sudden, just quick. Nothing threatening. I stopped just inside the doorway.

  The booking officer walking ahead of me spun on his heels and rushed toward me. The chief held up his hand. The officer stopped.

  “Your handcuffs, sir. They were uncomfortable. I removed them during the ride in.” I placed them on the edge of the chief’s desk. “My name’s Rick Carnes. At your convenience, Chief Warner, I’d like to have a moment to talk with you.”