The third hole, p.1
The Third Hole, page 1
Copyright © 2013 Patti Starr
Published by Iguana Books
720 Bathurst Street, Suite 303
Toronto, Ontario, Canada
M5V 2R4
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise (except brief passages for purposes of review) without the prior permission of the author or a licence from The Canadian Copyright Licensing Agency (Access Copyright). For an Access Copyright licence, visit www.accesscopyright.ca or call toll free to 1-800-893-5777.
Publisher: Greg Ioannou
Front cover image: Jane Goodwin, Stuart Starr
Front cover design: Jane Goodwin, Stuart Starr
Book layout design: Meghan Behse
Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication
Starr, Patti
The third hole [electronic resource] / Patti Starr.
(The DeLuca series)
Electronic monograph.
Issued also in print format.
ISBN 978-1-927403-61-7.—ISBN 978-1-927403-60-0 (Kindle)
I. Title. II. Series: Starr, Patti. DeLuca series (Online).
PS8587.T3288T45 2013 C813'.54 C2013-901499-3
This is an original electronic edition of The Third Hole.
Other books in
The DeLuca Series
Deadly Justice
Final Justice
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
My thanks to Iguana Books: Greg Ioannou – the boss – who was there seventeen years ago when my first novel, Deadly Justice, was published, and to his wonderful team, Emily Niedoba, my cover designer Jane Goodwin, my copy editor Alexa Caruso, and particularly Meghan Behse, who worked on the edit with me. Her patience and expertise were so important.
Beresheet – Jack Stoddart, Don Bastian and Rosemary Aubert – you were the beginning. Thank you.
Kudos to two dynamite chicks and one fabulous hunk:
Detective Nadine Teeft, whose investigative expertise and creative insight into the minds of creepy criminals ensured that the plot was always credible;
Debra Snider, one of Ontario’s top criminal lawyers, who provided the legal perspective and murderous alternatives; and
Stuart Starr, whose social media/internet skills and strong shoulders helped to make it happen – Stu, you are simply the best!
This book is dedicated to my wonderful family – a family that now includes grandchildren who will love seeing their names in print:
Max, Zoe, Koby, Jacob, Rachel, Jona, Leora, James and Gabrielle.
You have made my life so much better. I love you.
PROLOGUE
Boston, Massachusetts. December 31, 1999.
“Would you like another drink, sir?” asked the steward as he rolled the liquor cart up to Grant Teasdale’s seat on the aisle. “This is the last call before we land in Boston.”
“Yes, thanks. I’ll have another scotch and soda.”
Grant looked at his watch. I should be at Elizabeth’s house before eight o’clock.
He had been a little uneasy about going back to Boston, particularly to the home of the late Santino DeLuca, once head of the Villano crime family. The memories of his last visit there, and of Rebecca, wouldn’t be easy for him to handle. But Elizabeth DeLuca’s phone call had been so upbeat that he had accepted her invitation to come and celebrate the new millennium with her family.
Grant thought back to his sudden departure almost two years earlier. He cringed, as he always did, when he remembered the madness. It had been six weeks after Rebecca’s death and her daughter Lisa had called him, crying and frightened. He had been drinking, again, but he rushed over to her house, or at least tried to rush over. He hadn’t been fit to drive and had to walk the ten blocks in a freezing snowstorm.
“Lisa, where are you?” I called as I pushed open the front door and took off my boots and heavy jacket. There was silence. I called again. When I heard her crying I raced up the stairs, except in my condition I kept stumbling, and at the top I tripped over a chair.
“Oh Grant, I’m an orphan!” she cried when I reached her room. “When I was seven years old my grandfather died and Mom cried the same words to me. I’m afraid – I don’t know what to do.”
“I know how you feel,” I answered, trying to shake off the throbbing in my head as I sat down next to her. “I’ve been an orphan since I was ten years old. Here, put your head on my shoulder and we’ll tell each other jokes.”
When Grant had awoke a few hours later wrapped in a sheet with Lisa, he had little recollection of how, and what had happened, only that they were both naked. He couldn’t remember why he had kissed her or why she had kissed him back. Were they just two mourners clinging to each other, needing a reminder that they were still alive? Or had he been so drunk that he didn’t think about what he was doing?
For the first time in his life, Grant Teasdale, former cop, former FBI/RCMP Inspector, had run away, unable to cope with the emotional chaos that had become his life. He had gone back to Pt. St. Lucie, Florida, to his houseboat and his business. He worked twelve hours a day, and whenever his memories became too painful he turned to the bottle. He tried to wipe out what had happened between him and Lisa as just a drunken dream, but he knew that he was in denial and was ashamed that he never had the guts to call or face her again.
He always told himself: No rationale can make what I have just done acceptable, but Elizabeth is going to look after her. She is in good hands. I would only be a reminder of a terrible mistake.
The plane made a sharp turn. He gulped down the rest of his drink and leaned back in the seat. His business was booming, his son Kevin was living well in a group home, his parents were getting older, but could still manage independently, and his brother Larry, whom he worried about, was still living alone in Toronto.
Larry has never gotten over Elizabeth, thought Grant as the plane started its descent, just as I will never get over Rebecca.
On his way out of the terminal, he stopped at a flower shop to pick up some roses for Elizabeth and then walked over to buy a bottle of champagne. He handed the attendant a one hundred dollar bill and while he waited for the change, he glanced through the local newspaper. There was a screaming headline about the drug trade and two bullet ridden bodies found near the Charles River.
So what, he thought. New faces, new deals. The game never changes, only the people who play. And my Rebecca? She’ll still be gone and I will still be alone.
Ten minutes later he was in a cab heading towards Brimmer Street in the Beacon Hill section of Boston. He stretched his legs and watched the familiar lights of the city get closer.
At eight o’clock Grant was standing outside the DeLuca town house overwhelmed with memories.
Suddenly the door opened and a smiling Elizabeth threw her arms around him. “Grant, how nice it is to see you again! I’m so glad you’re here.”
She took his arm and led him into the den where he was warmly welcomed by the DeLuca brothers – Matthew, now a seminary student who was as jovial as ever and Peter, rumoured to be following in his late father’s footsteps. Peter was somehow different from the last time Grant had seen him.
“Inspector, this is Angela Brattini,” said Peter as his arm tightened around a young woman with black hair and even blacker saucer eyes. Still drop-dead gorgeous, thought Grant as she smiled at him.
“Angela, how nice to see you again,” said Grant as he took her hand. “We met briefly at Santino’s memorial mass.”
“That was three years ago,” said Angela, “a lifetime.”
“Yes, a lifetime,” said a familiar voice from the doorway.
Grant spun around. It was Lisa, holding a little boy with red hair and blue eyes. He stood frozen on the spot and couldn’t take his eyes off the boy. When he finally looked at Lisa her warm smile told him all that he needed to know.
“Would you like to hold him?” she asked. “His name is Sam.”
Grant held out his arms, unable to speak.
“Come everyone, let’s go in for dinner,” said Elizabeth. “A new year is coming and we have so much to celebrate!”
CHAPTER ONE
Pt. St. Lucie, Florida.
“Aw come on Dad, don’t be such a nerd!”
“Nice way to talk to your old man,” said Grant, trying hard not to smile. “You know that I’m not interested in Facebook or Twitter or tweeting or blogging or whatever else the rage of the moment is.”
“But this is the way of life today,” laughed Sam, his eyes dancing. “You can check out what’s hot – and maybe even get a line on some chick. I know you are getting close to the big six-o, but who knows? Maybe certain body parts will still work for you with the right partner. Time is running out!”
“What?” howled Grant as he reached out to wrap his arm around Sam’s neck. “Them’s fighting words. How come a little kid like you has sex on the brain? I don’t remember giving you any birds and bees lessons.”
“I don’t live in prehistoric times like you did, father dear,” yelped Sam as he tried to get out of his father’s grip. “We all know everything about everything, and what we don’t know, we can find out soon enough.”
Grant couldn’t stop smiling. Sam was already up to his shoulder and his red hair and blue eyes made him almost his clone. Grant Teasdale was six feet tall with wide shoulders and a very thick neck. He looked as if he could have been a linebacker for the Dolphins. His once flaming-red hair was speckled with white, but his blue eyes were still incredible.
“Okay, enough of this conversation,” he said still poking Sam. “You have plenty of work to do, which you have been avoiding. I promised your mother that if she let you stay with me for an extra week I would make sure that you practiced your bar mitzvah stuff.
“Do you want me to get in trouble with her?” Grant went on, laughing. “Do you want her to be mad at me? June 30th is only three months away. So I now decree that you are going to spend tomorrow in your room practising so that when you go home next week, you will be close to perfect.”
“I will be perfect,” answered Sam his blue eyes flashing and a big smile on his face. “I have the best of both worlds – a Catholic father and a Jewish mother. So I can’t be anything other than perfect. At least that’s what Nonna Elizabeth tells me.”
“Well, if anyone should know the real facts, it’s Nonna Elizabeth, for sure,” said a smiling Grant. “Okay, now we have to get going. I don’t want Kevin to start getting agitated if we’re late.”
Kevin was living in the Christopher Robin Group Home, one of the best in the country for the developmentally handicapped. It was located in Hallandale, a few miles north of Miami Beach, but it was over a two-hour drive from Grant’s houseboat in Pt. St. Lucie.
Brain damaged at birth, Kevin would never mature emotionally beyond the level of a ten-year-old even with the best professional input. According to the doctors, the umbilical cord had been twisted around his neck during the delivery, cutting off his oxygen supply. “God’s will,” the priest had said at the time. But Grant wasn’t so sure. He feared that somehow he had passed along a curse to his son.
When Grant had taken early retirement from the RCMP, he had moved to Pt. St. Lucie, Florida with his late wife Doris and his son Kevin. He established his own security firm known for its efficient and discreet service – as well as its excellent contacts with international law enforcement agencies, particularly the FBI. His skills and his reputation had made him very popular with certain secretive Latin Americans who wanted to travel back and forth between Florida and Argentina without any hassles, accompanied by their money. His company was also known for its access to the Russians – though their power was not as it had once been. The Chinese had quickly become the flavour of the month, but Grant wasn’t ready to put the time and effort into changing his priorities and seeking their business. He was doing very well with his regulars, thank you very much.
But Grant knew that he had to make some changes in his life sooner or later. Even though he really loved his houseboat – the gentle sounds of the water lapping against the boat’s hull, the squawking of the seagulls early in the morning, the cool breezes even during the hot spells – he knew that it was time to make the move to Palm Beach. His clients would have easier access to him, Kevin would only be forty-five minutes away and Sam, the light of his life, could make some appropriate friends during his frequent visits from his home in Boston.
“Dad, do you think there is any chance that Kevin will ever get better?” asked Sam as they drove along the Florida Turnpike in Grant’s red Buick convertible. They both loved the wind in their faces. “I mean, with so many advances in medicine and mental health issues maybe a miracle will happen?”
“Well, I’m glad you still believe in miracles,” answered Grant. “But I’m afraid there is absolutely no expectation of any significant advances, at least not in Kevin’s lifetime.”
“Well, you know that the Boston Latin School offers so many cool options,” Sam said. “I’m taking one of them – a fact-checking and research course. It’s a credit program that takes six weeks to complete and I thought it would be interesting. The other option was music appreciation, but I really don’t want to appreciate my music other than by listening to it. So I think I’ll do a little investigation into birth defects as one of the two projects that I have to do.”
“That’s a great idea on several levels,” said Grant as he reached over to pat Sam’s arm. “Maybe you’ll find that miracle we all wish for. As well, research and accurate analysis is a major component in business and other projects. And making sure that the facts are right can mean the difference between a big win and looking like a twit. Certainly in the law enforcement field it’s a critical factor.”
“I’m glad you agree with me Dad,” said Sam. “Of course, I’m still waiting, after five years, with eager anticipation to hear at least some of the stories about your crime fighting exploits that you promised to share with me…which you haven’t. Got something to hide?”
Grant couldn’t hold back his own laughter when he looked at his son trying to put an evil grin on his face and not succeeding very well. As a young man, Grant had dreamed of changing the world, making it free of crime and brutality. During his active service in law enforcement in Canada, he had risen in the ranks to an RCMP Inspector earlier than most. He was often in the forefront of raids and undercover operations, leading his team rather than directing them. He had an uncanny ability to spot fear and weakness in others making him very effective against the criminals he faced every day.
An intensely private man, he rarely spoke of his childhood and troubled early life. He was a man of few words and even fewer social graces who wouldn’t tolerate incompetence or corruption in any of his colleagues. His contempt for political expediency was well known, and he had never tailored an investigation to suit the powers that be.
“Is that really true?” asked Grant with a sheepish grin, “that I haven’t told you all about the brave and brilliant exploits of your very own father? I must have been drinking.”
“Ha, you wish,” said Sam. “But I’ll tell you something very surprising that I have learned during this course. The instructor keeps emphasizing that the internet is often not a reliable source. One has to check books, or documented events and dates – even the actual given names of individuals. I always thought the internet was like the written word from above, and, in the couple of specific assignments Rhonda and I had to do, it turned out that some of the information taken from the internet was wrong.”
“Rhonda?” asked Grant as he turned to Sam with his own Cheshire grin. “Who is Rhonda?”
“Just a classmate,” answered Sam turning to look out the window, knowing that his face was now beet red. “She and I were assigned to work as a team on our first project, ‘Blood Libel,’ by Mr. Hazelton. She is actually pretty smart.”
“And what about her looks?” asked Grant, feeling suddenly older. “Is she worthy of my son?”
Now it was Sam’s turn to have some fun. “Looks?” he bellowed to his father. “What does that mean? Are you a sexist? Is it only about looks? I am just about to become a real life teenager. You have to be careful what you say to me. I could be traumatized. But, yah, she is a real looker.”
Grant burst out laughing again. “You’re the best Sam,” he said. “I’m so lucky to be your father.”
It was close to five o’clock when father and son turned into the long driveway leading up to the Home. When they got out of the car and started walking towards the front entrance they heard Kevin’s voice calling to them. They turned as he came running from the playground off to the left. Almost six feet tall and weighing close to 165 pounds, Kevin Teasdale would, in another time and place, be seen as a handsome hunk. But when he spoke and when you looked into his eyes, his disability became apparent.
“Daddy, Daddy, look what I can do with the new iPad you and Sammy gave me for my birthday!” he shouted with obvious delight. “I can paint real pictures!”
Kevin embraced his father making sure to hold his iPad aloft and then lifted his brother Sam up in the air and spun him around.
“Sammy, what do you think I should try next?” he asked as he put Sam back on the ground. “Should I make a song?”
Kevin was jumping and laughing. “I read some of the words in the booklet and maybe I can figure out how to make a record of me singing. Will you show me for sure how to do it? Please, please?”
“Do you want to stop at The Cheesecake Factory for a bite?” asked Grant as he and Sam drove north on I-95 towards home. It was after seven o’clock and Grant was hungry. They had said goodbye to a very excited Kevin who could barely lift his head from the iPad that was now recording his voice – thanks to the instructions given by his younger brother – and for Grant it had been one of those priceless moments. He was still feeling the overwhelming love between his boys as he had watched Sam explain and show Kevin how to use his iPad as carefully and as simply as it could be done.
