The Inspector Walter Darriteau Murder Mysteries - Books 1-4 by David Carter (best finance books of all time .txt) 📕

Walter glanced up at the guy. He was standing like a bartender waiting for the drinker to choose his poison.

‘I said: Great ape did you say?’

His eyes were wilder this time, didn’t look like he’d brook an argument.

Walter nodded.

‘Good man,’ and he carefully unscrewed the green cap. Fixed a large needle on the syringe. Slipped it into the bottle. Carefully drew it back, fully loaded, scarlet blood, foreign blood, killing blood.

‘Byes-e-bye, Walter baby, it’s been nice knowing you.’

In went the needle.

Walter grimaced. Said nothing.

Down went the plunger. In went the blood.

Walter cursed. Stared at the syringe.

Stared at the blood as it left the vehicle, entering his body.

Nothing happened.

He wondered how long it would take.

Sam grinned.

Mission accomplished, at long last.

Seven times over.

Seven times one is seven.

Seven deaths.

Desi avenged, at last.

The fat black cop on his way to hell.

Desiree could sleep easy in her grave.

100 Ways to Kill People.

Inject an Inspector with the blood of a great ape, this time a murdered chimpanzee.

Poetic. Truly poetic.

‘Time to be going, methinks,’ he said, ‘I don’t want to be here when the cavalry arrives, if indeed they ever do. Bye-bye, Walter, have a nice death.’

‘You’re sick in the head. You should see someone.’

‘And you my friend; are dying. Make the most of the tiny time you have left, and just to be on the safe side, to make sure there is no mistake this time, I think a dash of rat is called for, don’t you?’

The killer grinned and picked up the red-topped bottle.

Walter shook his head. He still needed a pee.

Chapter Fifty

Karen and Gibbons jumped from the car. Ran toward the house, Karen stumbling, still weak. Gibbons helped her up. ‘Go on!’ she said. There was a dim light in the front room. Someone was in. Perhaps the old fool had fallen asleep in the chair. She joined Gibbons at the open front gate. ‘How do we get in?’ he whispered.

‘There’s a key,’ she said, ‘under a big stone. We came back late one night for a chat, he’d left his keys in the office, and he said there was a key under the stone, but it had been snowing and we couldn’t even find the bloody stone.’

‘Whereabouts?’

‘By the peony, Walter said.’

‘What does a peony look like?’

‘No idea, try that big stone there.’

Gibbons turned over the stone, nothing but wriggly worms and pregnant earwigs caught out in the streetlight. Turned over another. Same as before. Turned over another one. Faint light glinted from a rusty key, half buried in the mud. He grabbed it, wiped it on his sleeve, and raced to the front door. Slipped it in the lock. Gently turned. The door opened, with Karen at his shoulder.

Muffled voices came from the front room. They ran to the doorway, looked in.

Walter was tied to the chair.

There was a slight guy standing over him, dressed in black, stupid grin on his face, a huge syringe in his hand loaded with scarlet liquid. More bottles on the table, one empty, one full, one half empty, plus another smaller, clearer container.

‘Are you all right, Walter?’ screamed Karen.

‘Oh no sister, he isn’t,’ said the man in black. ‘He’s on his way to meet his maker, a gigantic chicken, we believe. Have any thoughts on the subject?’

Gibbons ran at the guy.

Sam turned toward him, syringe first, jabbing it in the air between them, snarling, ‘Come on hero boy, want some?’

Karen staggered to the hall, thinking about the Glock she’d left at work, went to the kitchen, rummaged in drawers, came back with two old carving knives, one sharp, one not, slipped one to Gibbons. Sam looked nervous. Karen moved around to the guy’s left, Gibbons to his right.

‘You’re finished,’ said Walter. ‘Finished! Give yourself up before you get hurt.’

Walter didn’t look well. He needed a pee.

‘Shut up, old man! It’s you who’s finished.’

Gibbons thrust the knife forward, tried to knock the needle from the guy’s hand. What was in that thing?

Karen lurched at the guy from the left, almost fell over. Sam had expected it. She was loyal to the end and seeking revenge. He jabbed the needle toward her face, aiming for the eye, Karen swayed left, missed by a whisker, but the needle grazed her right earlobe, not enough time for him to press the plunger. In the scramble he’d taken the knife from her, yanked it clear from her weak grasp. He was strong. Much stronger than he looked. Surprisingly strong, but she already knew that.

Sam hurled the syringe at Gibbons while jabbing the knife at Karen. The loaded needle turned over in flight and bounced harmlessly from Darren’s shoulder. Sam turned on the balls of his feet and flashed the carving knife at Gibbons.

Gibbons slashed back. Both missed. Karen glanced at Walter.

His mouth was open, and he was breathing heavy. He didn’t look well at all.

Sam and Gibbons were jabbing at one another like feuding pirates.

Karen saw her moment, rushed in from the side, used the last of her strength, issued a left-handed forearm smash, cack handed. Walter remembered she always took people by surprise, every time. It knocked Sam off balance. Gibbons waded in. He dropped the knife. He’d never liked knives, flexed his muscles and punched the guy in the chest, a thundering blow to the torso, a professional strike, honed in the gym he adored.

Walter managed a grin. Sam went down, falling backwards, over the coffee table, squealing and panicking and scattering the bottles of blood, and the scissors and the empty coffee mug, shattering the glass phial. Shards of razor sharp glass slipped into his body, injecting clear chemical into the small of his back.

They stared down at the immobile man in black.

At his startled and panicked eyes.

At his trembling and unmoving body.

At his quivering and silent lips.

At his final movements and  moments.

At his death.

‘Don’t touch anything!’ yelled Walter. ‘It’s some kind of chemical weapon; you’ll need to ring HAZCHEM. And call an ambulance. Quick! He’s injected me with foreign