Opening Day: A Matt Davis Mystery Read online

  Also by Joe Perrone Jr.

  As The Twig Is Bent – the book that started it all. A mystery thriller featuring a serial killer using sex chat rooms to find his victims. Not for the faint of heart!

  Twice Bitten – the third in the Matt Davis Mystery Series. A murdered Meth dealer, traveling preachers, and venomous snakes combine for a mystery that is sure to keep you guessing.

  Escaping Innocence (A Story of Awakening) – a coming-of-age story set in the turbulent ‘60s. Hilarious fun!

  A “Real” Man’s Guide to Divorce (First, you bend over and…) – a humorous treatment of a most serious subject. Perfect for anyone concerned about divorce. Lots of good advice along with plenty of laughs.

  Gone Fishin’ With Kids (How To Take Your Kid Fishing And Still Be Friends) – paperback only, co-authored with Manny Luftglass – a practical guide to fishing with a child. Entertaining and informative.

  All titles available in paperback and Kindle books* (As The Twig Is Bent, Escaping Innocence, and Opening Day all available in LARGE PRINT EDITIONS)

  *Gone Fishin’ is only available in paperback.

  Opening Day

  A Matt Davis Mystery

  by

  Joe Perrone Jr.

  Opening Day

  by

  Joe Perrone Jr.

  Copyright October 23, 2009

  Joseph Perrone Jr.

  © October 23, 2009

  SMASHWORDS EDITION

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any form or means without the written permission of the author, except in cases of brief quotations.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Dedication

  This book is dedicated to my wife’s uncle, the late Vahan Gregory, author, playwright, sculptor, and gentle human being, without whose support, positive reinforcement, and encouragement, this journey would have been, if not impossible, most certainly a good deal harder and longer. This one’s for you, Vah!

  Chapter 1

  April 1

  The room is pitch black, and the air has a fetid quality to it, warm and unmoving—like death. There are muffled female screams reverberating throughout the room, accompanied by sounds of someone struggling. My arms and legs are tied with women’s undergarments to the four opposing posts of a huge Victorian bed. Restrained as I am, I watch helplessly, as strobe-like images of a hand holding a knife appear, then disappear, then re-appear before my disbelieving eyes. The handle of the knife is mother-of-pearl, and the blade appears razor sharp, reflecting little pin points of light as it sweeps past my face. I strain mightily against the nylon and cotton manacles that bind me, but my efforts are of no use; I’m unable to move.

  With each pass, the knife moves ever closer, and I’m reminded of Edgar Allan Poe’s “The Pit and the Pendulum.” As I toss my head from side to side, the surgical steel blade makes one more pass, and just catches a stray hair on the side of my neck. An even louder scream pierces the still night air, only this time the voice isn’t a woman’s voice at all. It has a much more guttural quality to it, deeper pitched, more masculine even. It sounds familiar, yet I can’t be sure who it belongs to. But wait; it’s coming to me. Now, at last, I recognize the voice; I should—it’s mine. And, I begin to struggle even more furiously, because I know what’s coming. And, with that recognition and the memory that accompanies it, I realize why I’m screaming; and I do the only thing I can to make it stop—I wake up.

  Glancing over at the Little Ben alarm clock on my night table, I see that it’s nearly six a.m. I’m drenched in perspiration. Sitting up slowly, so I don’t wake Val, I slide my right hand automatically to the left side of my neck, running my fingers lightly over the scar that runs diagonally about four inches from the outside of my collarbone down toward my Adam’s apple. It’s not a particularly obtrusive scar, but the memory it evokes is overpowering.

  It’s been nearly two years since that night, the night that changed my life forever. Although the dream doesn’t come as often now as it did in the beginning (nearly every night the first year), when it does come, the details are just as clear, and its impact just as devastating.

  I’m Matt Davis, former NYPD homicide detective. In my “former life,” I worked out of the Tenth Precinct in the Chelsea District of Manhattan. Against the advice of my ex-partner, Chris Freitag, I had gone alone into an apartment building to check on a female member of our detective squad with whom we’d lost contact that evening. I had half expected to find her asleep in front of her television set, but instead I had surprised a serial killer doing his damnedest to add the lovely Rita Valdez to his growing list of victims. In the ensuing struggle, the “Chat Room Rapist,” as he later came to be known, had slashed me across the neck with a knife, partly severing my carotid artery in the process. My injury nearly killed me, and put me in a coma that lasted almost four days. Unlike a cat that has used up eight of its “nine lives,” but doesn’t know any better than to continue confronting fate, I considered the event as a kind of warning, and put in papers for early retirement as soon as I left the hospital.

  Valdez, on the other hand, didn’t have my option of early retirement, and although she suffered numerous cuts and bruises, and a badly crushed windpipe (it kept her from speaking for almost a month), returned to active duty after a brief leave of absence. I wonder whether she, too, is haunted by dreams of her narrow escape. We were both lucky, and although our bodies have healed exceptionally well, the emotional wounds each of us suffered likely never will. But, we go on, each of in our own way; that’s what cops do.

  I slide my feet into the new LL Bean, fleece-lined slippers that Val gave me for Christmas, and pad quietly over to the tarnished brass coat rack in the corner of the bedroom. After slipping on my bathrobe, I lightly touch Val’s cheek, and then exit from the bedroom, closing the door behind me.

  The air in the small bungalow carries the faint odor of hickory that emanates from the Vermont Castings wood burning stove nestled in the corner of the modest living room. Its matte black surface is as cold as the slate upon which it rests, and I quickly assemble a small pyramid of Fatwood kindling within its interior, bringing it to life with a battery-powered starter (also from LL Bean). Adding one piece of hickory at a time to the firebox, I soon have a pretty good fire going.

  Not only will the stove warm the room, but in rather short order, its surface will be hot enough to boil water. With that purpose in mind, I move to the kitchen, grab a copper kettle from the cupboard, and fill it with just enough water for my morning cup of hot chocolate. I start to put the whistle on the spout, but then picture Val, asleep in the other room and with a smile, remove it. The stove is already glowing, and I carefully place the kettle on its surface, then dump a couple of scoops of chocolate powder in a mug, and plop down in my armchair to wait.

  Ever since I was a little kid, breakfast has always been my favorite meal. Ironically, as a New York City cop, that small pleasure was denied me for nearly twenty-five years, except on weekends—or special occasions, like today—and I reflect upon how much my life has changed in the two short years since I retired. For starters, I no longer live in Manhattan. I’m still a cop—sort of—but now I’m the Chief of Police of Roscoe, a small town in rural Upstate New York. My hours are regular, my salary sufficient, and my life expectancy a lot longer than when I worked on the other side of the Hudson River. Ironically, this was the place I always sought as a refuge from the pressure
s of life as a homicide detective. Like a pilgrim to Mecca, I came to fish the trout-filled waters and restore my soul whenever I could—which was never near enough.

  Roscoe is a sleepy little hamlet, nestled in the Catskill Mountains, alongside route 17—or the “Quickway,” as it’s known locally—midway between New York City and Corning. At one time, during the ’20s and the ’30s, it was the regular weekend destination of affluent sportsmen and sportswomen, who came as much for the fresh air as the clean, spring fed waters. In those days, visitors arrived primarily by railroad coach, and the abandoned tracks alongside the Antrim Lodge serve as a reminder of that hotel’s prominence in the brief but memorable heyday of the town. Many years later, some clever-thinking fellow (probably a member of the Chamber of Commerce) dubbed Roscoe “Trout Town, USA,” thereby cementing its identity and no doubt prolonging its economic survival. By that time, Short Line Buses and cars had replaced the railroad as the primary method of transportation to this bucolic setting.

  In reality, the entire river system that drains the western slope of the Catskills, including the Neversink, the Beaverkill, the Willowemoc, and to a lesser extent, the East and West Branches of the Delaware River make up what is considered by most experts as the birthplace of modern day fly-fishing in America.

  Imagine my good fortune when Frank Kuttner, a Roscoe town council member—and good friend of mine—thought of me when the job of Police Chief became available. The quaint, but spacious bungalow that accompanied the position was all the inducement Valerie and I needed to make the switch from city dwellers to “country bumpkins.” The town council had dreamed up the idea of offering the cottage to the former chief’s replacement as a kind of “fringe benefit,” rather than pony up the money for health insurance. And, since it had been foreclosed for back taxes, it hadn’t cost them a dime. Val and I pay for renters insurance, as well as the cost of the utilities, but other than those minimal expenses, there’s no cost to us. All in all, it’s a pretty good deal all the way around. The fact that I receive lifetime health benefits from the NYPD actually helped me overcome one of the major obstacles Roscoe faced in filling its vacancy, its inability to offer healthcare. It was a “win, win” situation as they say. And, just like that, I became Chief of the Roscoe Police Department.

  This morning marks the beginning of a special day for me. It just so happens that it’s a Saturday, and my one weekend day off. It’s also April 1, and the opening of trout season. That fact alone does not distinguish the occasion so much as the circumstances in which I find myself. For the first time, I will be participating in the event as a “local,” an actual resident of Roscoe—not as an “out-of-towner.”

  In the past, I, along with countless other non-residents, have competed with one another for a spot along the perimeter of Junction Pool. Here, the Upper Beaverkill and Willowemoc Rivers merge, before continuing downstream as one body of water with a single name: the Beaverkill. The activities traditionally begin with the blowing of a whistle that signals the official start of the season, and quickly accelerate to fever pitch, as anglers cross lines (as well as tempers), in an effort to land the first “keeper” of the virgin season. Just as crazed are the reporters from area newspapers who furiously compete to interview the fisherman lucky enough to corral the first fish of the day. Traditionally, the next morning’s front pages feature identical photographs of the event, with accompanying stories that are suspiciously similar to those of previous years, with only the date and names having changed.

  Today, however, will be different—at least for me. I have decided to forego the mob scene at Junction Pool and, instead, concentrate my efforts on a small stream several miles outside of town, off Bear Spring Mountain Road. Its waters may not harbor the stocked fish of its rivals, but the chances for a surprise are far greater. Little do I know what this day holds in store for me.

  Chapter 2

  Olivia, the previous year – early on day one

  Olivia Michelle Elge is a seventeen-year-old senior at Elkton High School in downtown Elmira, New York. Her bright blue eyes and shoulder length blond hair hint at her Scandinavian heritage, but it is her tall, full-bodied figure, suggestive of another ethnic contribution, that attracts most of the attention from the members of the opposite sex. Her mother, Rosaria (nee: Cavalucci), is a single parent who works the night shift at the Corning Glass Works in the nearby town that bears the name of its economic benefactor. Driving the eighty-four-mile roundtrip to work, five nights a week, is a small price to pay for the comfort of knowing that Olivia and her younger brother, Frankie, each will be able to finish high school and perhaps even attend college.

  Olivia, however, has other plans in mind on this crisp November day. Rather than catch the bus that will deposit her safely in front of her school, she has mapped out a different journey. Ever since her first period, she has been planning a way to pursue her goal of becoming the next big runway fashion model. Only her best friend, Linda, has any knowledge of her intentions, and the two have sworn an oath of secrecy, not to be broken under pain of death.

  She dresses quickly in a pair of jeans and a green pullover sweater, laces up her tan, waterproof Dunham boots, and reaches under the bed to retrieve the nylon knapsack she packed neatly the night before with jeans and sweatshirts—and a stash of sexy undergarments (mail-ordered and shipped to Linda’s address). She carefully re-examines her makeup and hair, and then satisfied as to her appearance, slips quietly downstairs to the kitchen. Her mother and brother are fast asleep, as she hastily re-heats the pot of coffee left standing on the stovetop since the day before. While the coffee warms, she spreads peanut butter and jelly on slices of bread, slaps pairs together, and slips them into zip-lock bags, to be secreted in a zippered pocket on the outside of her knapsack.

  She scribbles a note to her mother (adding words of love for her brother) and tapes it to the refrigerator door. A few tears moisten the corners of her eyes, but she wipes them away with the back of her hand, takes a deep breath, and continues her preparations for leaving.

  Over the last year, Olivia has squirreled away every penny she has earned working part-time at the supermarket and from occasional babysitting jobs. Now, the sum total of nine-hundred and forty-five dollars occupies a “secret” compartment in her faux Louis Vuitton handbag. To her adolescent way of thinking, it is a veritable fortune. She intends to hitchhike her way to New York City and then take a subway to Brooklyn, where she can rent a room at the Greenpoint YMCA. She had hoped to stay at the famous McBurney “Y” in Manhattan, but her Internet research into its rates has convinced her that she’d be better off at the lesser-known residence. She figures it will only be a matter of days before she finds a job waiting tables in Manhattan. And, after that, perhaps a few more weeks or, at most, months, before she’ll be “discovered.”

  After nervously gnawing on a day-old bagel and some cream cheese, washed down with a cup of the warmed-up coffee, Olivia Elge slips on her bright red, goose down Northface jacket. She takes one last look over her shoulder at her home, and quietly makes her way out the front door. She is at once excited and scared to death. But, one thing is for certain. There is no turning back.

  Chapter 3

  The drive out of Roscoe to my “secret spot” is a short one—less than fifteen miles—and my old Jeep Wagoneer barely raises its oil pressure as it makes the final ascent up the long Bear Spring Mountain Road toward Walton. As I pass the WLUV FM radio-station broadcast tower on my right, I slow the vehicle to a crawl. I’m searching for a cast-iron pipe sticking out of the granite hillside on my left. Not only does it bring to the surface delicious ice-cold spring water from its source, deep beneath the mountain, but it also marks the place where I must turn off the paved road and onto the narrow gravel path that leads to Cathy’s Creek—my “secret” spot.

  I look in both directions to be sure no one sees me leave the paved road, and then quickly turn left onto the gravel surface and pull the Wagoneer to a stop. I throw open the door, an
d in less than thirty seconds, I’ve locked the front hubs, an action that will permit me to shift into four-wheel drive. No point in taking any chances. From here on, it’s a long, slow crawl, first up and then down the gently sloping path, for about three-quarters of a mile to the water below. The creek lies nestled in a hollow between two sloping mountains. It takes less than ten minutes to reach my destination, a small clearing off to the right of the path. I pull in, throw the transmission into park, and switch off the ignition. The sudden quiet is deafening. I roll down the window and inhale deeply; the scent of white pines and decaying leaves fills my nostrils. My ears detect the sound of running water, and I’m pulled from my vehicle as if by an invisible force. I’ve never seen Heaven, but I pray it bears some resemblance to this place.

  With great care, I assemble my newly acquired bamboo fly rod. It’s not a Leonard, Garrison, or any of the other collector-type rods that adorn the “For Sale” pages of my favorite fly-fishing magazine. It’s just an old used Heddon that I picked up at a garage sale hosted by an elderly widow only too willing to accept the fifty-dollar bill I pressed into her delicate hand. Frank Kuttner has refinished it for me, and as far as I’m concerned, it might as well be a Gillum or a Payne, such is the joy it brings me when I take it in my hand and use it.

  The water of the creek is not exceptionally deep, but having learned the hard way that hip boots are “always an inch too short,” I don my chest waders and slip into my vest. The delicate foot of my old Orvis CFO single-action reel just fits beneath the hooded portion of the up-locking reel seat, and I carefully twist the ring tight, securing the reel in place. I double the fly line, and thread it through the onyx stripping guides first and then through each of the smaller black ones that follow, until I reach the tip. Unwrapping a new leader, I attach it, loop-to-loop, to the nylon butt section, connected to the fly line. As I pull the tightly coiled nylon through a rubber-lined leader straightener, my fingers are trembling in anticipation. The entire ritual has lasted less than five minutes, but I feel as if I’ve already lost an hour. I’m ready to fish, and at last, I make my way to the water.