Lollipop Murders

Jim Malloy

Description

Revenge is mine, sayeth the Lord. Marvin thought that was bullshit. Marvin was intelligent, quick-minded, courteous, considerate, and a smart dresser. The young lady he showed an interest in said, “Get away from me you ugly twerp.” It really pissed Marvin off. Sergeant Jack Delaney, a cop for sixteen years, headed a special task force tagged the Doom squad. Except for his cop ability, his life was typical. All screwed up. Marvin really pissed him off.
Sgt. Delaney, nicknamed Micky, and his team are assigned an unusual murder series committed by a wimp named Marvin. Marvin, scorned, thinks all women are suckers because they fall for the jocks, guys that don’t appreciate them. He decides that since women are suckers, he would make them all Lollipops, every flavor.

Sujets

• Detective
• Mystery
• Fiction

Informations

• Publié par: Xlibris US
• Date de parution: 23 février 2022
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781669812197
• Langue: English

Extrait

Lollipop Murders
 
 

 
 
 
Jim Malloy
 
Copyright © 2022 by Jim Malloy.
Library of Congress Control Number:
2022903177
ISBN:
Hardcover
978-1-6698-1220-3

Softcover
978-1-6698-1221-0

eBook
978-1-6698-1219-7

 
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 any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.
 
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
 
Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.
Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.
 
 
Rev. date: 09/09/2022
 
 
 
Xlibris
844-714-8691
www.Xlibris.com
828788
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Epilogue
 
To humans—Your cruelty and torture inflicted on your fellow man continually amaze s me.
TO LAW ENFORCEMENT —Th anks.
To those that are offended by this book—Tough shit!
Although the actions of law enforcement in this book are fictional, at some level those not in law enforcement, at some level, I'm sure, believe that’s the way it is and those in law enforcement, at some level, I’m sure, wish that it was.
A special thanks to my aunt and uncle, Paul and Martha Strifler. Their technical and content editing surely saved me from looking like a d ummy.
 
Books by Jim Ma lloy
Historical adventure:
Raptor’s Rev enge
Hard-boiled detective:
Lollipop Mur ders
Death Whis pers
Die, Mother Goose, Die
The Twi ster
Snake Bite
 
 
 
jimmalloy-author .com

CHAPTER 1
D EEP IN HIS gut, Micky knew he’d have to kill him.
He watched the kid step from the black night, lightning flashing against a growling sky. The kid stood hunched under the awning, sopping wet, face hidden in the hooded sweatshirt, hands in pockets, looking back and forth, nervous.
This was it. Micky felt it in his bones as he did a thousand times before. The kid, taking a fast peek in the window, waited, jerking his head from side to side, looking, looking, casing.
The pouring rain was steady as Micky, standing in the shadows, pressed against the bricks of the warehouse. The lone street light, long ago smashed by a punk’s rock, made it hard to see as he squinted at the fluorescent interior of the package store.
Shards of light streamed and glinted off the rain as water dribbled from his nose. A sudden shiver shook his body. He forced himself to calm down by rocking, shifting his weight from left to right.
“What’s he waitin’ for?”
His eyes stung, unblinking, his mind flashing back to when he was a boy waiting for his dad outside a beer bar. He’d stand for hours, shuffling, angry, tears welling, ashamed of his father.
His thoughts pleading, “Come on, dad,…mom’s waiting.”
“Fuck.” He mumbled, shaking his mind back.
More rain dripped as he remembered leaving his slicker at the precinct. A good cop never gets wet . He grunted at the fallacy of the old cop proverb.
That asshole Shamy said it wasn’t gonna rain. Well, at least he was getting soaked too.
Squinting again, He strained against the night, seeing Shamy’s form on the other side of the lot barely visible through the gray veil of rain. The June shower felt fresh at first but now he was chilled.
“Probably why you ain’t a lieutenant, ya dumb shit,” he muttered as rain sounds drowned his voice.
The tinkle of a bell jerked him back. A customer left the store, stopped, snapped open an umbrella, and scooted down the street.
The kid gave a final look around and bopped inside. Micky tensed, losing the kid behind stacked aisles. His eyes zeroed on the night clerk at the counter.
Seconds turned like hours.
“Come on, asshole.”
He switched to his left foot, checking his hip holster. His toes squished the water inside his new leather shoes. Tomorrow, he knew, they’d be curled up like Sinbad’s.
And there he was.
The kid plopped something on the counter and pulled his gun. The clerk looked like he might piss his pants. Micky swore he could see the whites of his eyes. Maybe we shoulda tipped him… Nah, he’d just fuck it up.
Micky’s heart shifted into overdrive.
Blinking against the rain, his every muscle was levered like a cable. His fingers swept his face like a squeegee. His body warmed like hot toast as his heart thumped against his rib cage.
This was it. Two months of this night shit. This was it.
“Hope Shamy’s not dozin’,” he muttered. “Okay, asshole, okay, let’s go, come to papa.”
The kid busted through the front door at a run. Micky cocked his steel as a distant brain cell heard the tinkle of the doorbell drifting on the wind.
BAM! BAM! BAM!
The kid was shooting at Shamy.
“Jezus!”
Micky, taking a dive in a puddle the size of Lake Erie, rolled, stopping prone, arms whipping out like a snake, Colt locked in both fists.
“Freeze, asshole!”
As the kid twisted toward the voice, a crack of lightning lit him up like a searchlight.
Micky saw his slow snicker and the round black hole of his gun barrel. Time crawled in Micky’s mind.
Squeeze, don’t pull. Squeeze, don’t pull, his mind repeated by rote.
BAM! BAM! BAM! BAM!
He heard the cracking thud as the first round slammed into the kid’s mouth splitting his teeth, ripping his tongue, exiting his jaw below the ear. His head snapped back as a glob of blood spat from his mouth. The second round slammed into his breastbone glancing off into his lung, stopping like a worming beetle.
His body curled forward like he was gut punched, his lung flooding with blood like a water balloon.
He raised his head, surprised, as the third hunk of lead pierced his throat clean in a sucking gasp, ripping a chunk of meat from the back of his neck.
The fourth bullet missed, disappearing somewhere in the night.
The kid swayed, arms spread, head limp, with hollow eyes as another jagged bolt tore across the sky, making him glow like a hanging Jesus. When the flash dimmed, the kid crumpled as Micky listened to his dying gurgle over the tapping rain.
Shamy trotted over as Micky stood over the kid, his dead eyes glaring back. As Micky and Shamy stared at the body, the store lights silhouetted their dripping forms like ravens eyeing road kill.
“Chris, Micky, ya got ’em clean.”
Sirens wailed in the distance as Micky looked at his leg.
“Shit, I tore my pants.”
They’d been tracking the kid for a couple of months. His twelfth heist, two clerks dead. A doper with a death wish.
Micky was happy to grant it.
Jack Delaney was Irish, Catholic, and a cop. A walking cliché. And to cap it off they called him, Micky , real original. They tagged him with the handle after walking a beat in the old Irish neighborhood and it stuck.
St. Louis was a shit town, especially the north side where it hugged the muddy Mississippi. It was nineteen fifty-eight, and they were still selling three-two beer on Sundays. During the week, stores closed at five with “Blue laws” forcing everything closed on Sundays except church and taverns.
They wanted to make sure you prayed and drank beer. It was a German town, straight and square.
They did allow some Irish and Italians in. They tried to stop the blacks, but couldn’t, so they gave them the shit jobs which was great because the Irish didn’t want them. The Irish worked around the edges, getting by. You joined the force, were a priest, or you shook down the Jews. The Italians stuck to themselves, did their own thing.
It was home for Anheuser Busch and Stan the Man. Life was simple, clear cut, clear rules.
Elvis wasn’t welcome.

CHAPTER 2
T HE SQUAD ROOM was copied from some old cop movie. It must’ve been some grand design to piss everybody off. Jammed windows with lazy ceiling fans hung like sick helicopters hovered over cramped desks and mountains of paperwork. A Lucky Strike haze hung like a t