Our Honored Dead (Stephanie Chalice Thrillers Book 4)

Praise For Lawrence Kelter and

The Stephanie Chalice Mystery Series

“Lawrence Kelter is an exciting new novelist, who reminds me of an early Robert Ludlum.”
—Nelson DeMille

“Chalice’s acerbic repartee is like an arsenal of nuclear missiles.”
—BookWire Review

“Kelter is a master, pure and simple.”
—Rachel Dove for Kindle Book Review

“Chalice is irresistible; a contemporary tour de force.”
—James Siegel, NY Times best-selling author of Derailed

"Red-hot reading, hypnotic, atmospheric . . . Lawrence Kelter has a rare gift for intricate plotting, swift pacing, and well-drawn characters that jump off the page. A helluva psychological thriller."
—
J.R. Rain, USA Today best-selling author of Moon Dance and Dark Horse

"Lawrence Kelter is my kind of writer: blistering action, unforgettable characters, and dialogue sharp enough to draw blood. Kelter gives more bang for the buck than any thriller writer I know."
—
Dani Amore, best-selling author of Dead Wood

"Lawrence Kelter just keeps getting better and better. Fast pace, action, and humor; what more can you ask for in a great read? This one's a must!"
—
Rick Murcer, NY Times best-selling author of Caribbean Moon

Our Honored Dead

Stephanie
Chalice Mystery #4

By

Lawrence Kelter

Our Honored Dead Copyright © 2012 by Lawrence Kelter

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by information storage and retrieval system, without written permission of the Publisher, except where permitted by law.

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

ISBN-13: 978-1480130852 ISBN-10: 1480130850

Edited by

Jan Green of thewordverve inc

Interior book design by

Bob Houston eBook Formatting

For Dawn and Chris

The author gratefully acknowledges the following special people for their contributions to this book.

For my wife, Isabella, for her love, support, and tireless dedication to the perfection of this book.

For my children, Dawn and Chris for making me smile.

“And if any mischief follow, then thou shalt give life for life . . .”

~Exodus 21:23-25~

As
I looked out the hospital window at the sobering morning sky, I wondered why God would allow this to happen. I was losing all of the great men in my life, one by one: first my dad and now Sonellio. He had always meant so much to me. He was like the uncle I never had, one of my father’s contemporaries, and a guiding force in my life.

I swallowed, hoping the pop in my ears would block out the monotonous beep of the heart monitor. It was early in the morning, so damn early, not quite six.
Too early to lose him
, I told myself.
Please give us the day, just one more day. I’m not ready.
I turned from the window to drink him in, perhaps for the last time, and hope for a miracle. His face was pale. Each breath was so tentative that I was uncertain another would follow.

I folded my arms over my belly as if to protect the new life within from the influence of death. “He’s a good man,” I whispered, “a really good man.” A few tears began to drizzle down my cheek.

The baby kicked.

“Don’t be upset, there’s nothing we can do.”

The baby kicked again as if to challenge me.

“Settle down.” I rubbed my belly in a soothing manner. “You’re just like your father, always looking for attention.”

God takes with one hand and gives back with the other, one life ebbing away and a new one about to arrive.
Anyone in my position would have entertained the same thought.

“What’s that you say, I’m being morose? You know you’re very precocious for a fetus.”

The baby kicked twice in rapid succession.

“Anyway, I’m sorry if I’m sad. I can’t help it. I love him a lot.”

I heard the floor creak. I was still a little on edge from the events that had just transpired. To say there were loose ends in our investigation was an understatement. A murderer was still at large. I usually have my emotions under control, but with all of my hormones whirling around like spirits in a cocktail shaker . . . I turned and looked through the doorway into the hospital corridor. All was quiet.

Sonellio moaned. His desperate sound drew my attention. I stroked his cheek. “Nothing to worry about, Boss, everything will be all right.”

Thinking back, Sonellio had always been around. My father had worked for him when he was on the job. He had always been there for me after dad passed.

“Hey, stop kicking,” I scolded the baby playfully. “I’m going to miss him. I’m sorry.” He became my boss after I made the cut and became a detective. He was a good, salt-of-the-earth, church-going, Italian boy with great morals. But Sonellio had smoked heavily. It was a solitary chink in the armor of a noble man, a weakness that was about to put him into the ground. Lung cancer. It could have all been prevented. It was difficult to remember him as the healthy, younger man I had once known.
To see him now, so gaunt; you would never believe it was the same person.

“You’re never going to smoke,” I informed the baby.

I felt the baby move.

“It’s not negotiable.”

My stomach rumbled. This time it was due to hunger. “I hope daddy gets here with mommy’s coffee soon. It’s okay, Sweetie; it’s only decaf. Yes, that’s right. I’ve given up regular coffee, just for you.”

The baby was still trying to get comfortable.

“Anything for you, Sweetie.”

The baby grew fidgety.

“Yes, even the red wine; that’s gone too. No, I don’t mind.”

Sonellio moaned again, more deeply than before. I wondered if he was out of time. He had been moaning since I arrived, a low and even sound that accompanied his shallow breathing. He moaned again, louder still. There was something unnerving about the sound of it. It sounded as if he was agitated. It was almost as if he sensed something and was trying to give me a warning.

The baby abruptly stopped fidgeting and became calm.

I felt goose bumps rise on my arms and neck.

“Chalice!”

My heart skipped a beat. I was waiting for Gus to return and was expecting to hear the loving tone of his voice.

The voice I heard was not his.

There was something disturbing and strange in the sound of the voice I had just heard. My heart became still.

It seemed like moments passed.

My heart finally began to beat again.

I turned.

My eyes locked on the gun that was pointed at my baby and me. I instinctively covered my belly with my hands to protect my baby as any mother would, but we were out in the open, naked and vulnerable. I cried out in terror,
“Gus!”

And then I heard the sound of the gun fire.

Weeks earlier.

The
sign on the door read, Phillip Kranston, OBGYN. I had been seeing Dr. Kranston for years, for his expertise as a GYN and was now getting to know him as an OB. He looked like Charles Nelson Reilly and wore glasses with massive frames. He is the sweetest man, completely innocent and unassuming. He would sometimes call at 10:00 at night or later to discuss lab results. I didn’t know of too many doctors as dedicated as he was. Phillip Kranston definitely fell within a small circle of individuals I trusted unconditionally. I referred all of my friends to him.
I mean look, I trust him to examine my hoo-ha. How many men can you say that about?

His waiting room was painted a warm shade of plum. The furniture was clear oak.

I was feeling a wee bit green.

I sat down with a clipboard—attached was a registration form and a medical survey with more questions than you might expect to find on the New York State Bar Exam. Kranston’s office was very efficient, and they asked for a profile update on every visit. Nothing had changed since the last visit, so I ran through the forms, checking boxes without giving it too much thought.

A woman sat next to me nursing her little girl. Her infant seemed content with her lunch, suckling happily on mommy’s breast. She turned to me, and we exchanged a brief smile just as the waiting room door burst open and another pregnant woman in leggings and pencil heels rushed into the room. She raced up to the reception window.

“Cassandra Capuano for Dr. Kranston,” she said, panting.

The receptionist checked her schedule. “You’re an hour late.”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m sorry,” Cassandra said, “The cab driver got lost.”