Bicycle Shop Murder by Robert Burton Robinson (fiction novels to read .TXT) 📖

Greg had never spent the night in a hotel room with a woman that was not his wife. And he was feeling some guilt, even though they would be sleeping in separate beds. It was a special situation, and it was all quite innocent. But he wondered what people thought when they saw Cynthia and him walking through the lobby together.

A college-aged boy passed them as they approached the elevators. The punk checked out Cynthia from head to toe, and then made a second pass specifically for legs and boobs. Then he gave Greg a nod that said: I don’t know how a dog like you got this chick, man. But, you must be good. Real good.

They stepped into the elevator with a well-dressed, older couple. The man smiled at them. His wife checked for wedding rings, and when she saw none, gave Greg and Cynthia a disapproving stare.

Greg was embarrassed.

Cynthia ignored the woman.

Unlike some women who continued to wear their wedding rings long after their husbands died, Cynthia had already taken hers off. She didn’t want it to be there reminding her of Troy’s abuse or his death. Not that she could forget any time soon.

As Greg and Cynthia walked out of the elevator and toward their room, Greg made the mistake of looking back at the older couple.

The husband was trying to get their door open, struggling with the key card. The wife was still shaking her head at Greg.

Cynthia said, “I’m beat. I need a long, steamy shower. So, you might want to take yours first. ‘Cause if you go after me, there may not be any hot water left.”

Greg usually took his in the morning. But maybe a hot shower would begin to melt away the layers of stress that had been piled onto his body over the past few days. “Okay.”

His mind seemed to revert to that of a teenager as he entered the bathroom. Should he lock the door? Of course not. She wouldn’t come in. But what if she did? And what would that mean? There was an amazingly beautiful, sexy woman outside that door.

As the heat flowed down across his naked, wet body, his thoughts brought arousal. Arousal that was quickly muted by the fear of irresistible sin.

When he walked out of the bathroom in a complimentary hotel robe, Cynthia was sitting on her bed. She was watching one of the cable news channels.

“Your turn.”

“Thanks. Nice robe.” She went into the bathroom.

“Yeah. There’s one for you too.”

Greg turned off the TV and got into bed. The soft sounds of Cynthia bathing would be more relaxing than the news. Twenty minutes into her shower, he dosed off. When she came out of the bathroom, she was surprised to see him sleeping. They were both worn out. It was only 9:15, but it had been a long, tough day. She turned off the lights, and was asleep in two minutes.

At 3:15 AM, something woke Greg from his deep sleep. For a second, he was confused, trying to figure out where he was. Then he realized Cynthia was moaning in her sleep. The corridor light shining under their door illuminated the room like a nightlight.

Greg saw her getting out of bed, and thought she must be headed for the bathroom. He quickly closed his eyes for a few seconds—she was wearing only a bra and panties. They would have brought a change of clothes with them if they had known it would be an overnight trip.

When he opened his eyes, he thought Cynthia would already be in the bathroom. But she had stopped at the foot of the bed, and was reaching for something that was not there. She picked it up anyway, holding it as though it was a hair dryer, or a hammer. She turned her fist sideways, and made a quick, violent motion in the air from left to right, parallel to the floor.

Then it hit him: she was reliving Troy’s murder. But why was she reliving it if she wasn’t the one who did it?

She quickly stepped back, threw the invisible object down, and began crying, “No, no, no! Oh, my God, no!”

Greg jumped out of bed to rescue her from the nightmare. He put his hand on her shoulder and said, “It’s okay, Cynthia. It was just a dream.”

She jerked around to face him, nearly catching his nose with her elbow. Now she was awake. She grabbed him with both arms and pulled their bodies tightly together.

Later he would remember how wonderful her body felt against his. All he could think about now was how he hated seeing her afraid. “Are you okay?”

After holding him tight for a few more seconds, she said, “Yeah. I’m okay now.”

She sat down on her bed, and he sat across from her, on his bed.

“It must have been a horrible nightmare.”

“Yeah. What was I doing? Did you see? Was I walking around the room, or what?”

“Just a few feet.”

“It was the same dream I had last night. I dreamed I walked up behind Troy while he was passed out in the chair, picked up his knife, and cut his throat. Then I woke up and found him murdered—just the way I had dreamed it.”

He moved over to her bed and sat down beside her. When he put his arm around her, she leaned her head toward him, and rested it on his shoulder. As her tears dripped one by one down his chest, Greg whispered a prayer for her.

When she began to feel heavy on his shoulder, he knew she was falling asleep. He eased her down onto the bed, and draped the blanket over her. She looked so lovely, and appeared to be sleeping peacefully. Greg wondered how long it had been since Cynthia had a good night’s sleep. He bent down and kissed her gently on the cheek.

*

Something was annoying Buford. Some noise. He just wanted it to go away and leave him alone. But there it was again. What was it? He didn’t know, but he had to put a stop to it—now.

He shook himself, and his eyes opened to a hazy darkness. Where am I? Why am I naked? What is that noise? It was his cell phone. He located it on the nightstand. When he sat up, his head began to throb.

“Hello?”

“I’ve already called you three times.”

Buford’s eyes were beginning to focus as he tried to read the alarm clock. 5:08 AM. That can’t be right, he thought.

“It’s done. I need payment.”

Then it clicked—the man on the phone was John X. So, Marty was dead. Good. “Okay. But, I may have something else for you.”

“Okay.”

“Greg Tenorly and Cynthia Blockerman are coming to my office at 8:30 in the morning. They’re from Coreyville. I want you to be on standby, near my office. And be ready to follow them when they leave.”

“Hey—that sounds like a job for a private eye. I don’t do that stuff.”

“Look—I’ll pay $5,000 for you to be on call. Then, if I need you to take care of them, I’ll pay $10,000 each.”

Now you’re talking, John X thought. “Fine. I’ll do it.”

“So, be ready, and I’ll call you after they leave.”

“Got it.”

Now Buford was wide-awake. But how did John X get his private cell number? He didn’t remember giving it to him. He hoped nobody had been listening in. Then he remembered what had happened the night before. The young blonde hooker had been so hot. He had really wanted her. But she had tricked him, and drugged him. Was she crazy? Doing something like that to the powerful Buford Bellowin?

He could have her tracked down and thrown in jail. She would be sorry she had ever messed with him. On the other hand, it might be difficult to explain what he was doing with her in a hotel room. She might even be under-aged.

So, he still had his phone, but what about his wallet? He found it on the floor and checked the contents. It looked like everything was still there. All the cash and credit cards. He was amazed she didn’t take the cash—nearly $500. But where were his clothes?

Then he remembered the message she had given him from Marty: that Buford would never be safe again if he tried to have Marty killed. Stupid Marty. If the girl hadn’t drugged him he could have called John X and cancelled the hit. Not that he would have.

But now that Marty was dead, Buford wondered if someone was out there just waiting for a good opportunity to kill him. How would they do it? With a sniper rifle? Poison? A bomb? Maybe he should hire a bodyguard.

No. Marty was bluffing. He wouldn’t have had enough money to pay for a hit. Marty was practically broke. Buford had only given him enough for a hotel room and meals in Coreyville. But—how had Marty paid for the hooker to drug him?