Second Chance

SECOND CHANCE

A Stephanie Chalice Back Story

#2

By

Lawrence Kelter

~~~

Rookie NYPD detective Stephanie Chalice has taken her first life, a righteous kill in the line of duty. When her CO orders her to take time off, Chalice hops a jet to South Beach with her girl pal Tay for a little R&R but soon finds herself caught up in a homicide investigation. Chalice runs afoul of a merciless Jamaican drug lord named Donovan who hunts her across the Florida Everglades. With no jurisdiction and only her wits to rely on, will Chalice be able to bring the case to a close before Donovan’s noose tightens around her throat?

The
Back Stories
feature NYPD Detective Stephanie Chalice in the days before you first met her. She’s righteous, rambunctious, and oh so ready … for anything. Join her in
Second Chance
as she makes her bones as a rookie detective.

~~~

Second Chance Copyright © 2013 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.

Editing by

Jan Green of the Wordverve

Interior book design by

Bob Houston eBook Formatting

Acknowledgments

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

As always for my wife Isabella for nurturing each and every new book as if it were a newborn child, and for her love, support.

For my children, Dawn and Chris … just because.

Second Chance

A Stephanie Chalice Back Story

#2

By

Lawrence Kelter

Chapter One

Lyndell stood on the bow of the
Doubloon
and cast its anchor into waters that were fathomless and black.
The ballast broke the water’s surface, producing a silence-shattering splash as it hurtled downward, searching for bottom. He looked over his shoulder. Donovan’s watchful eyes were on him, peering through the night. He could see them through wisps of passing fog.

Lyndell unwrapped a vinyl tarp and spread it methodically over the boat’s fiberglass deck. The Sea Ray was his pride and joy and he would not allow it to be soiled or damaged. Walking aft, he reached the stern, got down on his haunches, and lifted a body bag with minimal effort. The contents weighed lightly on his powerful back and shoulders. He tucked a panel of inch-thick plywood under his arm and rose cautiously. Balancing against the pitching of the Sea Ray, he slip-stepped forward along the railing to the bow.

Lyndell wore a rubberized butcher’s apron and carried a razor-edged meat cleaver. Donovan approached him and shot him an assertive glance. Lyndell relinquished his position, allowing Donovan access to the body bag. Donovan took the zipper in his thick fingers and yanked it open. He pulled the opening apart until the body was visible. There, staring up at him, were the lifeless eyes of the woman he had just killed.

“I’ll take a cut of porterhouse and a rump roast,” Donovan rumbled in his heavy Jamaican accent. Lyndell laughed because Donovan expected him to. “I’ll be up there,” Donovan said in a casual voice. He pointed to the Sea Ray’s flying bridge, maneuvered around Lyndell, and headed amidships.

Her name had been Keyla, now it was Death—twenty-two years old with a taste for the finer things, a taste for danger. Donovan had a penchant for women like her, women looking for a man of wealth and power. He was a magnet for them, and they could smell his money as surely as he could smell their greed—young, ambitious women looking for a sugar daddy.

Lyndell lifted Keyla’s head and slid the plywood beneath it.
You poor stupid girl,
he thought.
You couldn’t just spread your legs and keep your mouth shut?
Did you think he was buying you all those pretty things just to be nice?
He examined the corpse.
Just the way he likes them
, he mused,
young and skinny with a big chest
—
titties on a stick.
Moonlight illuminated her hair as he ran his fingers through it: lustrous strands of silk.
Goodbye, Keyla
.

Lyndell knelt next to her and drew the meat cleaver high above his head. He glanced at Donovan one last time before proceeding and then turned his head to avoid the splash. The hand-guided guillotine accelerated toward Keyla’s throat unflinchingly and without conscience. He didn’t even wince as the blade made contact with her tender flesh. Crimson droplets of blood leapt into the air and were caught momentarily in the glint of the moonlight before they splattered on the tarp.

He watched as Donovan lifted a mug of rum and turned to look astern. There was only blackness in that direction, an infinite chasm across which Keyla would never return.

The
Doubloon
came about—undulating waves slapped against the hull. The ocean had already dispelled the human chum that Lyndell had cast into it. He set a course back to port but would stop three more times along the way to scatter Keyla’s remains in random locations at sea. He lit a cigarette. It helped to purge the stench of the butchered woman from his nostrils. He watched as the smoke drifted astern, back to where Donovan stood, pissing into the sea.

Chapter Two

The jet turned onto the runway.
The engines roared as we accelerated to takeoff speed. I was so excited that I was literally dancing in my seat. “
Whee.
Here we go.” My friend Tay was next to me in the window seat, nervously shaking Valium from a prescription bottle. “Hey, you don’t need those,” I said. “It’s a big, comfortable jet—it’s like sitting in your living room.”

Tay put the bottle down and clenched the armrests. Her knuckles were white as the jet lifted off the runway. She glanced out the window and then turned back to me, looking even jumpier. “Living room? Are you crazy, Stephanie? I live in a ground-floor apartment. You want to know why? Because I
like
having my feet planted firmly on the ground. If I were meant to fly I’d—”

“Have a broom?”

“Girlfriend,” she scowled, “are you calling me a witch?”

I patted the back of her hand and grinned in a soothing manner. “Just trying to get you to lighten up, Tay darling. Tense are we?”

“Humph,” she replied. “I can’t believe I let you talk me into this trip.”

I guess she was less than thrilled with my Wizard of Oz reference. Yes, Tay was a good witch, but her raw nerves had made her a bit snarly. The expression on her face suggested that she might utter a witch’s incantation:
bubble, bubble, toil, and trouble. A hex on you and all your kin, Stephanie Chalice
. And then just like that, I’d have a bulbous nose and large pores like my old college roommate, Agatha. “Anyway, everyone knows that you’re a good witch. Now settle down,
Glinda
.”

Tiny beads of perspiration formed on Tay’s forehead.

“The worst part is over,” I said. “We’re already up in the air.”

My reassurances were for naught. We hit a pocket of turbulence, and she dug her fingernails into my arm.
Ouch!
“Tay, you’ve got to settle down.” Her nails were red with a white heart painted on each tip—sharp enough to puncture a beer can.

“I can’t help it.” A tear popped out. “I’m thinking about my cousin Llysha.”

“Oh. My. God …
why?
Was she in a plane crash?”

“No,” she blubbered. “She died from a heart attack.”

“What does that have to do with …” There was nothing to be gained by probing further, so I let it go.

“The poor thing. She finally got her shit together, and then she got constipated.”

“You’re hysterical. What in God’s name are you talking about?”

“From the opiates,” she explained impatiently. “She got constipated and died sitting on the toilet … just like Elvis.”

Really? Elvis died on the commode? I guess it was befitting that the King died while sitting on his throne. Damn, that’s wack. “I’m sorry, but I’m sure Llysha is in a better place.”

“A better place? How can you say that? You think she’s in a better place? Fiji is a better place. Honolulu is a better place. Tahiti is a better place. A cemetery in Camden, New Jersey, facing a recycling plant for eternity is not a better place. That silly bitch threw her life away and put herself into the ground. Damn shame too; she had the voice of an angel. I used to weep every time she sang ‘Jesus Saves.’ She had a seven-octave range, just like Mariah Carey.”

“No, I just meant … Oh just forget it.”

I was sandwiched in between Tay, who was a voluptuous gal in her own right, and a much heavier woman who had already fallen asleep and was blocking my way to the aisle. She had a pale complexion and large, dark circles around her sunken eyes. She looked like a giant dozing panda.
Gee
,
it’s a good thing I don’t have to pee
. She must have been having a pleasant dream because she smiled and then made it evident that she was an accomplished musician by playing a few choice notes on her butt trumpet.

Tay made the sign of the cross. “Dear Lord,” she prayed, “please protect us and keep us safe from this flying Petri dish.”

Okay, she was right about that part. I wasn’t worried about the plane going down, but smart money said that at least one of us would walk off the plane with a sinus infection. Still, what’s the alternative? Ever try driving from New York to Miami? I did it once during spring break, piloting a car full of hot-to-trot coeds thirteen hundred miles in less than twenty-four hours. By the time we got to Miami, my back was so stiff I needed an orthopedist. Flying may have its risks, but it’s certainly worth the price you pay for a package of Sudafed.

The flight attendant came around and offered us drinks. Tay yanked out her credit card and purchased a bottle of chardonnay.

“It’s not a good idea to mix alcohol with—” I said.

Too late. Tay swallowed the wine and was out faster than you can say Orville and Wilbur Wright. Thank God she fell asleep—she was driving me bonkers.

The Chief of Ds had insisted that I take some time off, and I was really looking forward to a little rest and relaxation. I’d shot and killed a man in the line of duty, acting in self-defense. The shooting had been ruled justified by the police review board. Still, it was my first kill since joining the NYPD and profound psychological consequences can arise from violence of such magnitude. The department goes to great lengths to ensure that its officers don’t become mentally unhinged—a service automatic is not a good thing to have in your possession if you’re struggling with post-traumatic stress disorder. After many sessions with the department shrink, I’d been authorized to return to active duty. All the same, nothing heals quite like sunshine and ample doses of piña colada. It was bone-chilling cold when we left New York, and I could not get out of there fast enough. The R&R could not have been better timed.