DRIVEN: A Rita Mars Thriller Read online

  DRIVEN

  A Rita Mars Thriller

  Valerie Webster

  Driven: A Rita Mars Thriller

  Valerie Webster

  This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events, places, or persons—living or dead—is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2021 by Valerie Webster

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  Published 2020 by Valerie Webster

  with Ignited Ink Writing, LLC

  2076 Skylark Court

  Longmont, CO 80503

  www.valeriewebster.com

  Cover design by Larry Ingram and Bill Holtsnider

  Library of Congress Number: 2021900405

  ISBN: 978-1-952347-04-7

  First print edition published in 2021

  Printed in the United States of America

  Table of Contents

  DRIVEN

  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

  Acknowledgements

  More Mysteries

  Chapter 1

  “Rita Mars, this is a voice from your past.”

  “Who the hell is this?” Rita demanded.

  It was eleven o’clock, and the dreary end of a long day. A miserable October rain tapped on the office windows. Through the water washed glass, Baltimore’s Mitch­ell Court House next door was a smear of grey and black.

  “I first met you devouring Hershey bars in the newsroom at midnight.” The man was gleeful.

  “That narrows it down.”

  Great clue. Hell, she’d been a reporter for seventeen years before she started the agency. Rita cradled her chin. The police department snitch who gave up the narcs ripping off drug dealers? The accountant with the guilty con­science who squealed on the HUD housing contracts?

  “We were a pair and then again we were not.”

  “Look, pal, I don’t know—”

  “I was the snow king and you were the fire breather.”

  Rita started to hang up, but there was something eerily familiar about that line.

  “You never know when you’ve had your last chance,” the man said.

  “Bobby Ellis.” Instinctively, Rita touched the worn chrome Zippo in her pocket that bore those very words. Chills ran along her arms and the hair bristled at her neck.

  “Bingo,” Ellis said.

  “God, I’m so glad to hear from you. Where are you? When can I see you?”

  “Sunday.”

  “Halloween?”

  “The Overlook Inn in Harper’s Ferry. Breakfast at ten. I’ll have a lot to tell you. A story for above the fold. “

  Rita scribbled his instructions on a blank notepad. “Tell me now.” Above the fold on a newspaper’s front page was reserved for big time news.

  “Just be here.”

  Rita thought he was hanging up.

  “By the way—ever think you’d see me alive again?” Ellis asked softly.

  “No,” Rita said. “I never thought I would.”

  Chapter 2

  Rita Mars sang along with the Shirelles. She glanced at the Jeep’s speedometer and then at the rearview mirror to check for approaching troopers.

  The West Virginia countryside blazed with yellow and scarlet. Sunlight sprinkled the rock-strewn pastures with brilliance and made the car’s white hood shimmer like a snowfield. Even the black and white Holsteins seemed brighter than usual as they ripped up the last shreds of yellowed pasture grass.

  Though it was late October, Rita had the top down on the Jeep. It was good to ride on this open road alone with the sun and wind. She couldn’t really be forty-five this year. She ran thirty miles a week and could still get into jeans the size she’d worn in college. Rita peered over the top of her Raybans and took another look in the mirror. Ok, so her dark hair was shot through with silver.

  She smiled. It made her look more interesting. After all, how many older women had she fallen madly in love with in her younger years?

  Rita flipped the radio off and concentrated on her meeting with Bobby Ellis. She hadn’t seen him in forever. Yes, she had thought he might be dead. A superior journalist, he’d thrown it all away with a coke habit that he paid for with a career and a marriage. No one had seen or heard of him now for more than two years.

  After he disappeared, a malaise had set. Rita abandoned investigative reporting and spent her time working on a detective’s license. She was going to right wrongs instead of writing about wrongs as she described her abrupt life change.

  She sighed. She wanted to return to the happier thoughts that had so recently danced in her head.

  A red truck with a rainbow sticker on the front bumper appeared in the oncoming lane. Rita’s smile came back and she waved as they raced past each other.

  “We’re everywhere. We’re everywhere,” she hummed to herself.

  She returned to her former mood of excited anticipation. She was seeing Bobby again.

  They had been reporters together on the Washington Star . More like brother and sister than co-workers, they had fought over editorial recognition, wept on each other’s shoulders, and held each other’s hand during their respective long, dark nights of the soul.

  Rita tried sweet talk at first when his habit began to devour him. Then she got tough. They fought bitterly. In the end, he surrendered everything to the white powder.

  She’d been as angry with herself as with him. She couldn’t make him stop. Like a flashback, the feelings were the same when she thought about her childhood. She hadn’t been able to stop the runaway train her father rode either. Alcohol carried him far and fast. In the end, he stuck his police revolver into his mouth and killed his pain.

  Bad memories again. Rita shook her head and switched the radio back on.

  “There she was, just a walkin’ down the street . . .” Rita sang along at the top of her lungs and pushed the accelerator just a little farther with her docksider.

  Five miles and three oldies but goodies later, she slowed as the road narrowed to the twisting mountainside lanes that led to Harper’s Ferry. Down the sheer embankment on the passenger side, she could see canoes below on this rocky segment of the Potomac. She took a deep breath. The cobwebs of leftover memory cleared. It was a gorgeous day. At the top of a steep winding hill, Rita spied the flag pole that stood in the center of the Overlook Inn’s circular drive. Old Glory ruffled its red stripes in a soft October breeze that seemed more spring than autumn.

  The parking areas along the drive were jammed with American made picku
ps and SUVs. Lots of military bumper stickers and window decals. Families just out of church hopped out of cars and headed for the Inn’s dining room and Sunday brunch buffet.

  As she reached the crest, she had to slam on the brakes. The drive was blocked by two Harper’s Ferry sheriff’s cars, a West Virginia trooper vehicle—blue gumball lights twirling—an ambulance from nearby Ransom, a fire truck, and a dented beige Crown Vic with county plates.

  Guests and townies milled around the west annex. A tall, grim-faced sheriff’s deputy held them at bay.

  “What the heck is this?” Rita jumped out of the Jeep.

  Inside the interior of the Overlook lobby was cool and dark. The desk clerk was a woman with long red nails and a plunging neckline to her sundress. Her blue eye shadow made her look like an alien. Oblivious to Rita, she leaned across the far end of the registration counter to stare out the front door toward the commotion outside. Rita pulled off her Raybans.

  “What happened?” Rita asked.

  “Man killed hisself.” The woman continued to lean and stare over the counter.

  The taste of metal rose in Rita’s throat. “Killed himself?”

  “Room 107. Maid found him.” The clerk’s sense of duty returned and she walked toward the center of the counter where Rita stood. “Can I help you with something?”

  Rita felt icy from the inside out. She dug her hand into her pocket to touch that Zippo talisman she always carried.

  “I came here to meet someone.” The words jumbled in her mouth.

  “Name?” The clerk absently flipped the registration book behind the counter.

  Rita said nothing.

  The clerk looked up then and said once more. “Name?”

  “Bobby Ellis,” Rita whispered.

  The two women stared at one another.

  Ignoring the angry comments as she elbowed her way, Rita plunged through the people gawking around the Overlook’s west annex.

  “Lady, you can’t go back there.” The tall sheriff’s deputy in charge of crowd control barred her way with his nightstick.

  “I came here to meet him.” Rita pushed at the deputy’s stick. He towered over her slim, five-foot frame and easily brushed her back.

  “Meet who?” He kept the nightstick between them.

  “Bobby Ellis. The man in room 107.” Rita pushed harder this time.

  “I said you can’t go back there. Police business.” The deputy almost knocked her off her feet.

  “I have a right. He’s my friend.” Rita grabbed the stick this time.

  The deputy yanked the stick, pulling her toward him and he leaned his face inches from hers. She could smell the nasty scent of Skoal on his breath.

  “You are not goin’ anywhere if I say so.” He twisted the stick, Rita still hanging on. She let go when her hands ached from the tension.

  Tears and rage streamed across her face. Her hands clenched into fists as she raised them once more to do whatever damage she could. Motion behind the deputy on the path to the rooms at the back of the annex stopped her.

  “Coming through.” A med tech in navy pants and a starched uniform shirt guided the front end of a stainless gurney behind the deputy. On the gurney was a black vinyl body bag.

  “Bobby.” Rita lunged forward as the deputy stepped aside to make way.

  But the deputy was quick. He snatched at the back of her denim shirt, catching her so that the banded collar cut into her throat. Rita gasped.

  “Lamar!” A booming command came from behind.

  The deputy let go and Rita tumbled against the tech.

  “I’m sorry,” the tech said. “Nothing we could do when we found him.”

  Another big paw touched her arm. It was gentler this time. This was the giant who pulled Lamar’s chain, a giant with a sheriff’s badge and sweet, sad eyes.

  “I know this is hard, miss. But I’d like you to come down to the hospital with us and help with a positive ID. Then I’ll help you any way I can.”

  The sheriff put an arm around her shoulder. “I’ll walk with you and we’ll get him into the ambulance. Is that all right with you?”

  Rita nodded.

  Her knees were like water, but she walked. Crying, stumbling, held now and then by the giant. She kept one hand on the gurney, the other frantically worked the worn engraving on the lighter in her pocket.

  Chapter 3

  On this Halloween eve, a gold crescent moon suspended above the valley at Harper’s Ferry. On the dark mountainsides, flickers of light signified the little cottages that clung to the steep rocky slopes. It was a clear and perfect night.

  Rita saw this through the smudged glass doors of the Harper’s Ferry Hospital emergency room. Out there the world was in order. In here, on the other side of a few inches of glass, was chaos and the dread of loss.

  As she watched she saw a man standing in the dim edge of the light pool cast by the parking lot lighting. He was dressed in dark clothing and seemed to be looking toward her as she stood in the hospital doorway. Lighting a cigarette? She was drawn to the figure but as she stared, he seemed to disappear.

  She looked up and down the rows of cars outside. Nothing and no one. She pulled out her smartphone and tapped the magic numbers.

  “Captain Smooth.” Mary Margaret answered in her on-duty voice.

  Neighbors since the age of six, Mary Margaret Smooth and Rita Mars were inseparable. Together they survived growing up and coming out. They’d been through Rita’s father’s suicide, Mary Margaret’s mother’s wrath over her refusal to become a nun, Mary Margaret’s long-term relationship with Lola, and Rita’s trail of failed matches—including the latest devastation wreaked by the seductive but faithless Diane Winter.

  “Mary Margaret. He did not kill himself and I know it.” The words flew out of Rita’s mouth. “I’m going to find who did this.” She pounded her fist on the wall.

  “Rita?”

  “I’m going to find them and I’m going to make them pay.” With teeth clenched, Rita punched the wall again.

  The admitting clerk stared at her, but she didn’t care.

  “Do you hear me?” She was yelling at Mary Margaret.

  “Where are you, Slick? I’m coming to get you. Just tell me where you are,” Mary Margaret said slowly.

  “I’m . . .” But tears burst from her again and she couldn’t tell Mary Margaret where she was. She closed her eyes and pulled a deep breath into her shaking body. In a moment, she could speak and she gave details to Mary Margaret.

  “I’m ok,” Rita said at the end. “I’m leaving now. Meet me at the usual spot?”

  “I’ll be there, Slick.” Mary Margaret hung up.

  ♏

  It was well past 1 a.m. when Rita pulled into Baltimore City. The top still down on the Jeep, she had the heater on full blast against the long cold ride from West Virginia. She’d found an old sweatshirt she’d left in the back seat and pulled that over her polo shirt, but it was a thin comfort on a deepening October night.

  Rita trundled past the food and shopping pavilions along the Inner Harbor—all the shops were closed and dark. She wound her way down Eastern Avenue toward Fells Point. The bars were still in full swing, jack-o-lanterns in the windows and jukeboxes blaring from the open doors. Loud drunks staggered in gangs along the sidewalks or leaned against brick walls toward an alley as they peed into the darkness.

  She arrived at the Sip N Bite , open twenty-four hours and serving breakfast any time of day. In younger days, she and Mary Margaret had come here after hours of drinking and dancing in the nearby women’s bars on Lombard Street.

  Rita found a parking space in front and chained the wheel of the open Jeep. Inside was a mixed crowd of partied-out college kids and off-duty policemen. The kids, sitting at the long Formica counter, were trying to bring food to their mouths without spilling it in their laps. The policemen kept a silent corner of booths to themselves, sipping coffee and scraping up every morsel of fried egg with forks and shreds of toast. The place sme
lled of old beer and bacon with a hint of onion and Lysol. Every time she came in here, Rita felt like she was walking into an Edward Hopper painting.

  “Hey, haven’t seen you long time.” Nick, Sip N Bite’s owner and chief cook, called out to her. “You fren’ comin’ in too?”

  Rita nodded. Nick motioned to a harried waitress to take coffee to her table.

  The woman was young, but she had deep lines around her grey eyes. Her pulled back hair straggled from its rubber band and her thin hands were roped with veins that made them seem older than the rest of her body. Her pink uniform was clean, but the apron was stained with coffee and ketchup. She poured Rita’s coffee, left two menus, and shuffled off toward the kitchen.

  The door to the cafe opened. The drunks struggled to sit up straighter and the beat cops finished their plates and paid. Captain Mary Margaret Smooth in her starched black uniform, Glock on her right hip, stepped inside.

  She was the tallest 5’6” cop in the city. With her dark hair and eyes, she could easily have been Rita’s older—and taller—sister. Mary Margaret had perfect Catholic school posture that gave her height and presence and an unwavering gaze she had plagiarized from the Mother Superior at St. Frank’s. When she entered a room, people cleared a path.

  “Slick,” she whispered when she took off her hat and sat down, “what the hell is going on?”

  The story rushed from Rita’s mouth. At several points Mary Margaret had to slow her down and get her to repeat.

  As Rita concluded, the waitress slipped their bacon and eggs in front of them.

  “And I’m telling you, Smooth, Bobbie Ellis did not kill himself.” Rita leaned across the table. “He was meeting somebody that weekend—a source. He was on to something. He knew too much and somebody killed him.”

  Mary Margaret sipped her coffee. “But you said he was found hanged. That’s a mighty tough act to pull off as a murder.”

  Rita chomped into a strip of bacon. “Are you saying you don’t believe me?”