Caged Love: MMA Contemporary Suspense (Book One) Read Free Page B

contracted for one final beat.

Chapter Four
    T he club’s security tapes weren’t great, but good enough for Detective Mitch Westingham to go through. He adjusted his lanky frame in his worn gray chair and saw the 26-year-old muscular man who just days earlier was found dead a hundred yards off Highway 93 with his neck ripped up. The Crime Scene Investigators thought it was a body dump at first, but then found paint and chunks of tire just south of the Willow Road turn off. Then they found more chunks along Willow Road itself. This led to a blue Toyota Celica in the Colorado River. It was just a few feet under water.
    The body was found in Arizona, but Westingham was working with them because the car was in the Colorado River and Nick Maris was a resident of Las Vegas.
    Soon the story was clear. Somebody had killed Nick right on the shoulder of the road. Two sets of footprints were found, and one left deep impressions in the dirt as a man had carried Nick’s body up the slope and out of sight. Detective Westingham thought, must be a strong guy to haul that much weight .
    It appeared that while the body was being carried, the other man had driven the crashed Celica the couple miles down Willow Road and then eased it into the river.
    Westingham ran a freckled hand over his stubbly chin and watched the video. He’d requested every night on which Maris had worked over the last month. Maris was in and out of the shot, mostly just walking around the giant club. Every so often he’d talk to a pretty girl and even less often break up a little skirmish. Nothing serious, but Westingham had made notes to track down a few guys. He guessed they were just overzealous tourists high on booze and the Vegas nightlife. If this was the case they probably weren’t even in the area on the night Maris was killed.
    After hours of video, Westingham made a few trips to the club and made the necessary calls. He was able to track down a couple of the club goers, one from Seattle and another from Milwaukee. Neither was still in Vegas at the time of the murder.
    The killing seemed random, yet premeditated. The Crime Scene Investigators had turned up very little. They could tell Westingham the type of boots the guys were wearing, that they used a homemade spike strip to blow out the tires, that they were wearing gloves, and that whoever strangled Nick Maris with the wire didn’t hesitate a bit. He enjoyed it or he’d done it before.
    No blood except for Maris’ was found at the scene, no hair, no prints. There were no second set of tire tracks and no witnesses either. It was a long shot to find a connection at Maris’ club, and Westingham had run through other possible connections. He talked with the guys at the gym where Maris trained, and even his old employer at the limo service. Nothing.
    After six weeks he seemed completely out of leads. Detective Westingham stood next to his desk, his hands shoved in his pockets and his red head bent as he stared at the photo of a dead Nick Maris in the Arizona day. He hated it, but it looked as if this case might go unsolved. It certainly wouldn’t be the first. He’d keep it open, but it would go in a pile of cases that were open and unsolved.
    He knew he couldn’t find every murderer, but pictured himself calling the family and telling them in his best Humphrey Bogart voice that he’d solved the case and the men were behind bars. Instead, when he called he spoke in his regular voice and told the family much different news.

Chapter Five
    Eight Months before UCC 132
    K orean Air flight 738 nonstop from Chicago to Seoul, Korea waited on O’Hare International Airport’s crowded tarmac. A crackly Asian voice broke the hum of the engines. “We are currently fifth in line for takeoff,” the speaker cut off for a moment, “we will be in the air in fifteen minute. I apologize for the early delay...routine engine maintenance.”
    Bretten thrust his head back against the worn seat cloth. He placed his