Fatal Dose
Authors: K. J. Janssen
Tags: #Literature & Fiction, #Mystery; Thriller & Suspense, #Thrillers, #Suspense, #Thriller
Fatal Dose
A Mark Matthews Mystery
By K. J. Janssen
Copyright 2013 by K. J. Janssen
Cover Copyright 2013 by Ginny Glass and Untreed Reads Publishing
The author is hereby established as the sole holder of the copyright. Either the publisher (Untreed Reads) or author may enforce copyrights to the fullest extent.
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This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to the living or dead is entirely coincidental.
Also by K. J. Janssen and Untreed Reads Publishing
Blood Money
Fatal Dose
A Mark Matthews Mystery
K. J. Janssen
PROLOGUE
Marco Vennuti’s reputation as a “tough guy” did not have a natural origin. His biological father was a gentle man; an insurance company accountant until his untimely death in a car accident when Marco was only nine years old. To assure that there was food on the table and a roof over their heads, his mother married a family friend, Guido DeAngelo, within a year; a marriage of necessity, not of love.
At the age of eleven, Marco began coming home battered and bruised from street fights with neighborhood kids. One day he arrived home with his clothes torn and sporting a shiner. That was the final straw for his stepfather. DeAngelo was determined that there would be no sissy-boy living under his roof. He decided that the time had come to toughen up the boy.
Over the objections of his mother, who wanted her son to be “soft and gentle” like his grandfather Antonio D’Annunzio, a published poet of some repute in the old country, Guido had been planning how he could accomplish his goal with this frail child.
His wife was out shopping for several hours, so he would not be interrupted. He took Marco down to the cellar. “You pathetic little piece of shit,” he began, “I’m going to toughen you up for your own good.” He proceeded to give Marco a methodical beating including numerous punches to his face and body, kicks to his head and ribs and knocking him into all four walls of the basement. Marco begged him to stop, but Guido ignored the pleas. When he was finished, he left the boy unconscious on the cellar floor while he went upstairs for a beer and to catch a little of the Indians game on TV.
Twenty minutes later, when he returned to the basement, he found a terrified Marco sitting up against a wall, whimpering. Guido walked over to Marco, grabbed him by the shoulders and screamed at him, “You little wimp. If you don’t stop that crying right now, I’ll give you more of the same.” The crying ceased immediately. “Boy, if you’re going to learn one thing today, it’s that this is the very last time anyone will ever get the best of you. I’m going to teach you how to take care of yourself. You’re going to learn to defend yourself against anyone who tries to lay a hand on you, but you’ve got to want that for yourself.” Guido saw a hint of interest through the swollen lids. “Do you understand what I’m saying to you?” Guido asked with tears building in his own eyes.
The little head bobbed up and down. Marco was face-to-face with his stepfather. He looked into Guido’s tearing eyes and at that moment, through the fear and intense pain, he realized that DeAngelo was really trying to help him; that he really cared about his well-being.
Later that afternoon, when his mother returned, she broke into uncontrollable sobs at the sight of Marco. She knew better than to confront her husband over what he had done. Instead, she suffered in silence. Over time she would grow to appreciate the training that Guido gave her son. She saw an air of self-confidence in Marco, but still missed the soft side that she had been nurturing in him for years. The change brought in its wake a new concern and that was that Marco, with his newfound strength, might turn into a bully, like so many of the other boys in the neighborhood.
Over her objections, Guido kept the boy home from school for the next two weeks. It was a credit to his training skills that his punches and kicks were so carefully placed that no bones were broken. As Marco recovered from the pain and bruises, his resolve never to lose another fight, grew stronger. He learned the fine art of fighting, both fair and dirty. Guido was an excellent teacher. His years of surviving on the streets were being put to good use.
When Marco eventually returned to school it took only two street brawls for him to establish respect; respect that was well earned. The boys he fought required extensive medical attention. At the age of eleven, Marco suddenly had the reputation of being someone you didn’t want to mess with. Boys often several years older than he, had the good sense to stay clear of him, sometimes crossing the street to avoid any possibility of contact. This amused Marco because he wasn’t looking for fights. In fact, he mostly went out of his way to avoid them. What everyone thought they saw when they came into contact with him, that he was a bully waiting to beat up on the next unsuspecting victim, was far from the truth. Actually, he was just trying to get by. If you didn’t bother him you had nothing to fear from Marco Vennuti.
CHAPTER ONE
The black Dodge Durango pulled up to the loading dock of the four-story warehouse on Kato Road in Cleveland, Ohio. The driver got out and walked up the ramp to open the door while his two companions lifted an unconscious Brice Bennett from the trunk. Brice’s hands were tied behind his back. They half carried, half dragged him up the ramp into the warehouse. They took the freight elevator to the second floor. Crossing the warehouse to a door marked “STORAGE ROOM” they untied his hands and tossed him unceremoniously onto the concrete floor of the empty room, locking the door on the way out.
“That should take care of the rat for now,” the leader of the group muttered.
One of the other men asked, “When will the boss be here?”
“He’s on his way. I hope he gets here soon. I want to get this over with.”
Twenty minutes later, Marco Vennuti got off the freight elevator and joined the men. Vennuti’s two hundred pounds were well distributed over his six foot frame, evidence of his lifetime of physical training. He worked out at least three times a week, including occasional sparring with aspiring amateur boxers in training and with his private martial arts instructor. His black hair was short-cropped, highlighting a prominent forehead. A gravelly voice asked, “Where is he?”
“He’s in here, Mister Vennuti” the leader replied, as he opened the door and stepped back to let his boss enter.
Marco stepped into the dimly lit room. Over in a corner, Brice sat- terror evident in his eyes.
“What’s going on, Mister Vennuti?” he asked. “I didn’t steal anything, honest.” Brice knew that there was little chance of walking out of that place alive unless he could convince Vennuti that he was innocent of whatever it was that he was suspected of doing. He summoned all the courage he could muster, determined to protect his cover as long as he could.
Vennuti reached down and slapped the top of Brice’s head. “I’ll ask the questions, punk and if you want to get out of here in one piece, you’ll give me some straight answers. I don’t know who the fuck you think you’re messing with. When you screwed up last time I gave you a good job with decent money and this is how you repay me.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Brice protested. “I didn’t do anything wrong. Honest, Mister Vennuti. I’ve just been doing my job like you told me. You’ve gotta believe me.” His voice was trembling. His eyes were wide open with fear. He knew Vennuti was not the kind of man you could easily fool. All he could do was try his best. His survival depended on how well he could carry it off.
“Get him to his feet,” Vennuti snapped.
Two men grabbed Brice and pulled him up. His legs were rubbery so they grabbed him roughly under the armpits.
Marco looked him straight in the eyes. “You must think I’m stupid. I hear that you’ve been sneaking around at night, going way out of your way to make phone calls on public phones. You’ve been followed for a week now. After one of your calls, the cops intercepted one of our vans and we lost over one hundred thousand bucks worth of pills. Last night, again, right after you made one of your calls, our new repackaging shop was raided. It was the one you helped set up last Wednesday. Do you expect me to believe that it’s all a coincidence?” Marcos voice hardened as he asked, “What’s your angle? Who are you working for?”
“You’re wrong. I was just calling my brother. My mom’s sick and I was worried about her. I don’t have a phone where I’m staying and it took me a while to find a public phone that worked.”
“Don’t give me that bullshit. You went right by a half-dozen phones that were working. You didn’t even try them and I also happen to know that your brother was killed in the war and you only had one. Now, I’m going to ask again, and this is gonna be the last time I ask nicely, who are you working for?”
“I’m not working for anyone. You’ve got the wrong guy, I swear. I’m sorry I lied about using the phone. I was really calling my bookie to place a bet. He doesn’t want me to use any phones that can be traced. You understand that, don’t you? I was just being extra careful. It was all very innocent. I would never do anything against you. You’re my friend. I owe you.”
Brice was quick on his feet, but not quick enough to outsmart Marco Vennuti.
Vennuti’s face flushed. “You goddamn liar,” he yelled as he launched a huge fist into the boy’s solar plexus, knocking the air from his lungs.
As Brice gasped for air, he blurted out, “I didn’t do anything. You gotta believe me. Please, don’t hit me again.”
Brice was unable to defend himself. The two thugs had firm grips on his arms. Even if his arms were free, he was certain that he would be no match for the four men, even with the hand-to-hand training he received at Quantico; at which he excelled.
Marco punched him again and then a third time. The two men holding Brice strained under his weight and his body dropped two inches, causing the second and third blows to land on his lower ribcage. When Marco delivered the last blow, they all heard a loud snap as several ribs broke. All signs of struggle suddenly left Brice’s body. The men let Brice slide to the floor. The leader felt for a pulse; there was none. He looked up at Marco and shook his head.
“Geez, Mister Vennuti, he’s dead.”
Marco looked surprised and somewhat disappointed. He thought for a minute “Well, he was gonna be anyway. Get rid of him the way we planned,” he said to the leader. “Make sure it looks like an accident.”
