J.M. Griffin - Vinnie Esposito 06 - Death Gone Awry

Published Internationally by Lachesis Publishing Inc.

Rockland, Ontario, Canada

Copyright © 2015 J.M. Griffin

Exclusive cover © 2015 Laura Givens

Inside artwork © 2015 Joanna D’Angelo

All rights reserved. The use of any part of this publication

reproduced, transmitted in any form or by any means,

electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording,

or otherwise, without the prior written consent of the publisher, Lachesis Publishing Inc., is an infringement of the copyright law.

A catalogue record for the print format of this title

is available from the National Library of Canada

ISBN
978-1-927555-55-2

A catalogue record for the Ebook is available

from the National Library of Canada

Ebooks are available for purchase from

www.lachesispublishing.com

ISBN
978-1-927555-56-9

Editor: Joanna D’Angelo

Copyeditor: Sarah Corsie

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any person or persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

Dedication

For Judi, who listens better than anyone I know. Thank you.

Acknowledgments

When in need of information concerning criminal justice, I call upon Kristina Paglio, my go-to advisor. Thanks for your help.

Also Available

The Esposito Series:

For Love of Livvy (Book 1)

Dead Wrong (Book 2)

Dirty Trouble (Book 3)

Cold Moon Dead (Book 4)

Season For Murder (Book 5)

The Esposito Series Box Set (Books 1-3)

Deadly Bakery Series:

A Crusty Murder (Book 1
)

A Crouton Murder (Book 2)

Focaccia Fatality (Book 3)

Coming Soon

The Esposito Series:

Deader Than Dead (Book 7)

DEATH GONE AWRY

Chapter 1

Please don’t be dead.

I peered at the floating body as I stripped off my jacket and ran toward the water. Frigid temperatures and freezing waist-deep water numbed my skin, leaving me with uncontrollable shakes as I hauled the body toward shore. Struggling against strong winds and soggy clothing that hugged my skin, I slogged on. His clothing drenched, he grew heavier and heavier as we drew closer to land.

Blood floated halo-like around his dark hair, leaving a trail behind us. While blood is my least favorite thing in the whole world, I doggedly ignored it in order to get this stranger ashore. My stomach hadn’t revolted from the sight of it, not yet anyway, and I guessed I was safe. In shallow water, he became heavier still, and my breathing labored at the strain of his weight. Land was within reach. So what if it just happened to be a cemetery, big deal.

In good physical shape, I stand just short of six feet, tall for a woman, but I take after my aunt Livvy. I’m not a weakling either, though my struggle to pull this inconsiderate fool ashore tested my strength. We finally reached dry ground. Shivering and puffing from exertion, I dragged him by his arms and flipped him onto his back.

Pale, cold skin stretched tight across his prominent features. He wasn’t dead pale, so I dropped down onto my knees and felt his neck for a carotid pulse. Pressing an ear against his chest, I listened for a heartbeat before I checked for breathing. With my cheek near his nose, I didn’t feel any warmth from his breath. I should have known better, I’m never that lucky.

My jacket lay on the ground where I’d flung it before wading into the bitter and still wintry water of the Scituate Reservoir. With fingers stiffened from my recent drenching, I fumbled in the dry jacket pocket for my cell phone. I dialed 9-1-1 and set the phone on speaker mode. In the time it took for the operator to answer, I had started CPR. I’m not trained as a professional life-saver, but I’m certified to perform cardio-pulmonary resuscitation. Besides, I figured the guy had nothing left to lose.

A distant male voice echoed as I counted chest compressions. His voice droned from the speaker as he asked what the problem was.

“I’m performing CPR on a guy who drowned in the Scituate Reservoir. Send me some help. I’m in the cemetery behind the church in Scituate village.”

“What church would that be, ma’am?”

“The only damned church with a full-on cemetery behind it.” I breathed into the man’s lungs and started counting compressions once again.

“Ma’am, that isn’t enough information. What is your name and present location?” The voice was calm. I was not.

“One and two and three and four and five and . . .” I counted and breathed, counted and breathed. Silently, I prayed this man wasn’t beyond help.

The cool, collected dispatcher waited for enlightenment. Of course he wasn’t soaked to the skin, freezing his ass off, performing CPR on a dead guy, and trying to talk all at the same time, either. I could have used a break here.

“Listen up,” I yelled toward the phone, “alert the freaking North Scituate Fire Station and tell them to help me, Vinnie Esposito. They’ll know who, and where, I am.” I ignored the man’s babbling and multi-tasked for another moment.

Seconds later, sirens blared as trucks left the station less than a quarter mile away. Sound carried in the small rural village, edged by the reservoir. Within those same seconds, my victim coughed, spewing water and saliva onto my clothes as I leaned over him.

How lucky could I get?

Turning him on his side, I watched the bedraggled man while blood continued to dribble from his head wound. Folding my legs beneath me, I leaned back and listened to him haul ragged gulps of air into his lungs. His breathing steadied as color flowed into his face. I huffed and puffed, shivered and shook, while watching the man become stronger with every breath.

Fire and rescue trucks halted at the top of the slope. I glanced over my shoulder. The rescue team was heading toward us at a run.  Relief spread through me like warmth from a crackling fire.

Thank God.

Bill MacNert, an old timer at the fire station, approached. His lips always held a secret smile and I never could figure out what went on behind his twinkling eyes. I’d known him and his family for what seemed like forever. He drew closer, his eyes on me, while shaking his head back and forth.

Directing the younger men toward the victim on the ground, as though they didn’t already know what they were doing, I moved back and smiled at Bill.

“Leave it to you.” He smirked.

“Hey, I did my good deed for the day,” I said and took the emergency blanket a team member handed me.

The EMS crew knew their stuff. They worked on the floater and then loaded him into the rescue. A large bandage was wrapped around his head, heavy blankets were piled over him, and an oxygen mask covered his nose and mouth. I watched the rescue move away, figuring the stranger was fortunate indeed.

Eyeing me with a keen gaze, MacNert asked, “Ya know this fella?”

“Never laid eyes on him until today.” Shivering, I walked toward my coat where it lay in a jumbled pile on the ground. I glanced around and realized that I’d hardly visited with my dead aunt.

There’s always tomorrow, Livvy.

Visits to Aunt Livvy usually occurred when my life had turned to crap or I’d managed to stick my way too curious nose some place it didn’t belong. I would unload my woes onto her grave and feel better for having done so. Livvy isn’t a ghost or anything. Don’t get me wrong, she’s as dead as they come, but it just gives me comfort to know I can come here and talk. She had always been a great listener. I missed that the most now she was gone.

A local cop arrived on the scene. Slowly, I hiked up the slope toward the road, my feet squishing in soggy sneakers while drenched jeans chafed my skin. Dressed in winter attire, with a heavy jacket and husky boots to keep his dry feet warm, I envied the cop. Knowing full well that he would want a report, I sauntered forward. Gosh, I was cold, shivering so hard my teeth chattered nonstop. After all, it was only the beginning of March, and in Rhode Island, it’s a cold, wet month.

“Are you Lavinia Esposito?” The officer stared at me.

“The one and only.”

His narrowed eyes held a doubtful gleam, but I ignored it. Cops tend to be suspicious about everyone and everything. I know this for a fact, since I teach criminal justice at a local university to cops, or
po-pos
as they’re called, and to security personnel, nicknamed
wannabes
by the cops. Often, a few legal students take my classes as well, which, in turn, creates an interesting, yet kindergarten-like atmosphere. The egos alone are a challenge when it’s time for order in the classroom. I know they’re adults, but it doesn’t always seem as if
they
know it.

“Did you see the accident?”

“No, I heard a splash. Branches snapped, and I went to see what happened. The guy was floating face down in the water.”

His wary expression never left my face. “What were you doing here?”

I shivered again and asked, “Do you think we could continue this conversation later? I’m just about frozen.”

“You live a couple blocks away, right?”

“Uh huh.” I was certain he knew where I lived since I’d been in the news from prior misadventures of sorts. Besides, most of the local cops knew me, or of me, so he’d undoubtedly heard my name somewhere along the way.

He opened the cruiser door and motioned me in. I glanced back at MacNert, who grinned and said he’d check with me later.

It only took a minute or two before we arrived at the house. I live in the village of North Scituate, in western Rhode Island, across the road from the post office, in an oversized colonial built a couple hundred years ago. The house had been converted into two apartments at one time or another. When Aunt Livvy died, she left me her house and a gift shop. The gift shop was in Providence’s historic section of South Main Street.

The upstairs apartment is rented out to a luscious undercover FBI agent, Aaron Grant, who uses the Rhode Island Gaming Commission as his cover. While we aren’t romantically involved, it’s great to have eye-candy just upstairs. I reside on the ground floor. The driveway was empty of Aaron’s Yukon SUV. My car sat in front of the barn-sized garage.