The Deadliest Sins Read online

  JACK MURPHY WON’T BACK DOWN

  The headlines scream the ghastly news of an abandoned truck filled with murdered immigrants. Detective Jack Murphy and his partner Liddell Blanchard are on the case. They’ve got a lone survivor, rumors of a witness, and the feds getting in their way. Jack’s gut tells him there’s a connection with a local killing—and the bloodshed is far from over. He’s going up against a butcher who commits the unspeakable in the name of protecting America. Some say the worst crime is to look the other way. Jack Murphy only looks for justice . . .

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  Highest Praise for Rick Reed’s Thrillers

  THE DEEPEST WOUND

  “Reed gives the reader a genre story worth every minute and every penny spent.”

  —Book Reporter

  “Whew! The murders are brutal and nonstop. Det. Jack Murphy tracks killers through a political maze of lies, deception and dishonor that leads to a violent, pulse-pounding climax.”

  —Robert S. Levinson

  “The things Reed has seen as a police officer make for a great book.”

  —Suspense Magazine

  THE COLDEST FEAR

  “Everything you want in a thriller: strong characters, plenty of gory story, witty dialogue, and a narrative that demands you keep turning those pages.”

  —BookReporter.com

  THE CRUELEST CUT

  “Rick Reed, retired homicide detective and author of Blood Trail, the true-crime story of serial killer Joe Brown, brings his impressive writing skills to the world of fiction with The Cruelest Cut. This is as authentic and scary as crime thrillers get, written as only a cop can write who’s lived this drama in real life. . . . A very good and fast read.”

  —Nelson DeMille

  “Put this one on your must-read list. The Cruelest Cut is a can’t-put-down adventure. All the components of a crackerjack thriller are here, and author Reed knows how to use them. Readers will definitely want to see more of Reed’s character Jack Murphy.”

  —John Lutz

  “A jaw-dropping thriller that dares you to turn the page.”

  —Gregg Olsen

  “A tornado of drama—you won’t stop spinning till you’ve been spit out the other end. Rick Reed knows the dark side as only a real-life cop can, and his writing crackles with authenticity.”

  —Shane Gericke

  “A winner of a debut novel . . . Reed is a master of describing graphic violence. Some of the crime scenes here will chill you to the bone.”

  —Bookreporter.com

  Books by Rick Reed

  The Jack Murphy Thrillers

  The Cruelest Cut

  The Coldest Fear

  The Deepest Wound

  The Highest Stakes

  The Darkest Night

  The Slowest Death

  The Deadliest Sins

  Nonfiction

  Blood Trail

  (with Steven Walker)

  Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation

  The Deadliest Sins

  A Jack Murphy thriller

  Rick Reed

  LYRICAL PRESS

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  www.kensingtonbooks.com

  Contents

  Highest Praise for Rick Reed’s Thrillers

  Books by Rick Reed

  The Deadliest Sins

  Contents

  Copyright

  Quotes

  Dedication

  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

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  Preview

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Meet the Author

  Copyright

  To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a person or persons, such person or persons are merely models, and are not intended to portray any character or characters featured in the book.

  LYRICAL UNDERGROUND BOOKS are published by

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  119 West 40th Street

  New York, NY 10018

  Copyright © 2018 by Rock Reed

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

  All Kensington titles, imprints, and distributed lines are available at special quantity discounts for bulk purchases for sales promotion, premiums, fund-raising, educational, or institutional use.

  Special book excerpts or customized printings can also be created to fit specific needs. For details, write or phone the office of the Kensington Sales Manager: Kensington Publishing Corp., 119 West 40th Street, New York, NY 10018. Attn. Sales Department. Phone: 1-800-221-2647.

  Lyrical Underground and Lyrical Underground logo Reg. US Pat. & TM Off.

  First Electronic Edition: October 2018

  eISBN-13: 978-1-5161-0456-7

  eISBN-10: 1-5161-0456-0

  First Print Edition: October 2018

  ISBN-13: 978-1-5161-0457-4

  ISBN-10: 1-5161-0457-9

  Printed in the United States of America

  Quotes

  “Two urns by Jove’s high throne have ever stood,

  The source of evil one, and one of good.”

  —Homer, The Iliad

  “Without a sign his sword the brave man draws,

  And asks no omen but his country’s cause.”

  —Homer, The Iliad

  Dedication

  This novel is dedicated to ICE, Immigration and Customs Enforcement, for the very necessary work they perform in these difficult times. And to the local, state and federal officers involved in cracking down on terrorism, whether it be by gangs, lone-wolf, international, or the homegrown variety.

  I would also like to dedicate this seventh book in the series to Michaela Hamilton, my editor at Kensington Books, who believed in me and gave me a chance. I consider her my friend and mentor. And to my excellent team at Kensington who are experts at publicity, marketing, proofing, editing, legalese, cover design, distribution, and so many other things. Without all of you this bo
ok would still be a file on my computer.

  Chapter 1

  The “Coyote” sat in the booth, drinking stale coffee, eating a crust of cherry pie, and writing in a five- by nine-inch ring notebook. He had to record his thoughts, his feelings. That’s what his shrink said. His shrink was an asshole, but at two Benjamins a session Coyote didn’t want to waste the advice.

  The gray-haired waitress shuffled over in dirty house shoes. She was wearing faded gray sweat pants and a shirt with stains and smudges of flour.

  “Coffee?” she asked.

  Coyote looked around the shabby café. It was narrow, with a six-foot counter on one side and two ramshackle booths on the other—one of those had duct tape holding a leg together. There were no other customers. The varnished seat of the booth had turned to a gummy residue, but the top was worn smooth. Mounted in one corner of the ceiling was a defunct surveillance camera, its wires disconnected and hanging. The coffee in the bottom of the carafe was black and thick as syrup. She calls this drain cleaner coffee?

  He was polite. “No,” he said. His voice was gruff, deep for a man barely five and a half feet tall. He was wearing a charcoal-colored Burberry coat, black leather gloves, black Western Stetson, crisp white shirt with imitation-pearl snap buttons, creased blue jeans, and Western boots. He wasn’t a big man by any standard, but only a few men had made the mistake of seeing him as “small.”

  The woman said, “Closing in five.”

  He ignored her as her shoes scuffed across the stained black-and-white tiles. He dug deep in a pocket and pulled out a crisp twenty-dollar bill. He slid the twenty under his cup and read what he’d written so far:

  I’m tired. Tired of everything and everyone. People disgust me. Food doesn’t taste good. No happiness anywhere for me. I see people pretending to sing, their words full of hate and anger and violence. They dance with faces showing hate and confrontation. What are they so unhappy about? Why do they want to disrespect everything they got for free? They won’t work. They think they can be rich and happy taking drugs. They dishonor their parents and each other. They fight from a safe distance with texts and computers and phones. Cowards.

  Everyone is out for themselves and the only thing they can agree on is that their elders were wrong, racist, or homophobic. They don’t see why “elders” always talk about the past, about the lessons that took a lifetime to learn. They are confused about who they are, who anyone else is, angry that their elders didn’t give them more. Why should they take any blame or responsibility?

  This is where my mind goes when I’m on the road. Alone, thank God. My dreams are visions, premonitions of things to come. Slackers, drug addicts, and alcoholics, irresponsible, arrogant pretenders surround me. They have created a world where they matter. They don’t. If the last three or four generations were wiped from the face of the earth, we wouldn’t notice. They contribute nothing. They do nothing. They want everything. They’re using my air.

  “Time,” the old woman said.

  Coyote got up. He couldn’t wait to leave. The smell of putrid coffee mixed with the odor of fried onions was enough incentive to go. He walked out the door, his boots crunching on rock salt. He pulled his coat tighter against the frigid air, looked down the street at the car with the fogged-up windshield. The asshole had made Coyote wait. Coyote respected that.

  He tugged the coat collar up around his neck and face. He pulled a cigarette from inside his jacket and lit it. Holding it between his lips, he slipped his hands into his pockets and turned down the alleyway.

  * * * *

  The stolen VW sat halfway down the block from the Coffee Shop. It was an older VW, a ’73 or ’74, puke-green where it wasn’t primered. Its lights were off, but the unmistakable burbling exhaust noise came from the engine. The driver was stuffed into the driver’s compartment, knees touching the dashboard, upper body bent forward, hands on the wheel, head almost touching the roof. A black-and-white dog sat in the passenger seat, mimicking the driver’s focus through the windshield.

  He’d made the delivery over the same route dozens of times in the last five years. Each time, they gave him a new burner phone with one pre-programmed contact number. He was told the phone was for incoming calls only. He’d never gotten a call until today.

  The caller identified himself as Coyote. Coyote said there was a change of plan. He was to deliver his cargo in Evansville, Indiana, and turn the truck over to Coyote. He was given a location. He’d never been told to leave the truck with someone he didn’t know at a different location than where he’d been headed.

  He told Coyote so and asked how he was supposed to get back to Texas. He asked if he’d done something wrong. Coyote assured him he would have transportation waiting for him in Evansville. He would still be paid and with a big bonus on top because he might not be making deliveries for a few months. Coyote said his employers were being careful and he shouldn’t ask any more questions. That made him worry even more. All kinds of scenarios played through his mind. What if the big boss had been arrested and gave him up? What if this guy, Coyote, was a Fed?

  He didn’t trust anyone he didn’t know, and he didn’t know Coyote, so he’d deliberately missed the meet and drove around a few hours. Coyote called him again. This time Coyote was outright threatening and ordered him to do as instructed, not to call or talk to anyone or there would be hell to pay. He believed Coyote.

  Not calling anyone was easy. He didn’t have his employer’s phone number, and even if he did he wouldn’t have called. Only one other person knew he was driving, and they wouldn’t be any help if the Feds were involved. He needed this job. He was stuck. He couldn’t make the delivery with any confidence he wouldn’t be arrested, and he sure as hell couldn’t drive around aimlessly. Coyote had made it clear that he had no choice. But that didn’t mean he couldn’t improvise a little. Protect himself. Meet with Coyote on his own terms. No one would get the cargo until he got paid.

  He’d picked the time and location for the meet, but he was deliberately late again. One thing life had taught him was caution. He’d parked the truck clear across town, stolen a car, and drove to the location early enough to see the small man in the cowboy hat go inside. It must be Coyote. Coyote sat down in a booth by the front windows and didn’t move except to drink coffee, and it looked like he was writing on something. Maybe a check ledger? Maybe this really was the guy who paid the drivers?

  The meeting place wasn’t perfect, but he was driving a stolen car and didn’t need to attract police attention. He’d picked the place by the University of Evansville, with its sweeping lawns, water fountains, concrete benches, fraternity houses, bookstores and libraries and labs because he’d thought the place would be crawling with students and similar junky cars.

  Not so. He’d only seen two or three tiny groups of people on the street since he’d arrived. Watching them, he thought of his own dream of going to school once upon a time. He’d given up those ideas before he made it to high school. He’d been forced to join his father in the family business of stealing and stripping cars. It brought in money and you didn’t need a degree to do it. That’s how he was in possession of this car. He wondered how different his life would have been if he hadn’t...

  Coyote came out and looked down the street at the VW. He put a cigarette in his lips and walked into the alleyway. Coyote must have seen him driving by and was watching him. He had to run the heater while he watched Coyote. He hadn’t been as careful as he thought, but he had to get his money. All of his own was spent keeping his mom in that goddam nursing home in Florida. He’d only taken the job to take care of her. He owed her. She’d kept him alive in between the beatings his drunken bum of a father had given him and had always encouraged him to do something with his life, even knowing hers would never amount to anything but abuse.

  The old woman who had waited on Coyote came out wearing a sweat suit. She was thin as a rail, and he could see her S-shap
ed spine pushing against the back of the shirt when she turned to look up and down the street. She looked directly at him and went back inside. The shop lights went out, and the street was swallowed up by darkness, with the only light coming from the campus parking lots a block away. He’d picked this neighborhood during the day specifically because of the university campus with its raucous crowd of college students always running to and fro. The cold hadn’t seemed to bother them during the day, but now it was dark and the streets deserted. He didn’t want to go down that alleyway in the dark, but he had no choice.

  He turned to the dog. “Stay, uh...” He didn’t know the dog’s name. It wasn’t his, but maybe he’d keep it. He’d never had a dog. Wouldn’t have this one but he couldn’t leave it behind in the cold truck. He couldn’t do that to the mongrel. It was his soft spot. “Spot. I’ll call you Spot, okay?” he said to the dog. “You like Spot?”

  The dog was a shepherd mix or a terrier. It cocked its head to one side and looked at him.

  “Stay,” the man said.

  The dog cocked its head to the other side, and its dark, seemingly pupilless eyes locked on his. It gave a short whine, as if to say, “Are you crazy? Take me with you.”

  He exited the VW. The dome light came on, the door hinges creaked long and loud, and he had to slam the door twice to keep it shut so the dog wouldn’t run off or mess up the meeting.

  Noise wasn’t a problem. Coyote knew he was there and knew he would come to meet him in the alley. He looked around again. He didn’t want some asshole stealing the car and his dog. An unlocked car was like a bug light. It attracted thieves.

  The dog whined.

  He leaned down and put a finger to his lips, and it settled back in the seat. “Smart dog. Good dog.”

  He approached the alleyway, and a cold wind smacked him in the face. He pulled his coat collar up for all the good it did and stepped into the dark. He saw something near the end of the alleyway. A small glow at waist level. The cigarette.

  He stopped ten feet from the glow. “Mr. Coyote?”

  No answer. The cigarette didn’t move.