Game Of Masks

  A Jack McCall Mystery

  David Bishop

  Illustrated by

  Paradox Book Cover Formatting

  Contents

  A Jack McCall Mystery

  Mystery Series: In Order Of Release

  Preface

  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

  Epilogue

  Jack McCall Mysteries

  Excerpt - Ladies Lunch Club Murders

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Note From The Author

  About the Author

  Copyright

  FICTION: Except as otherwise provided for herein, this book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used for purely fictional purposes. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to actual events is entirely coincidental.

  Game of Masks. This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you’re reading this eBook and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return it and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of the author.

  Dear Readers: If you encounter typos or other errors in this book, please send them to me at: david@davidbishopbooks.com . Even with the many rereads by this author, editors, and several proofreaders, mistakes can slip through. But, together, we can eliminate those pesky critters.

  Copyright © 2019 David M. Bishop.

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical without the express written permission of the author. The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the internet or any other means without the permission of the author is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized editions and do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials.

  Please visit David Bishop, his books and characters at www.davidbishopbooks.com. At the above website click on Newsletter subscription. This will let us send you announcements of coming book releases and special offers made available to David’s loyal readers.

  David loves to hear from readers. Contact him at David@davidbishopbooks.com

  The author and publisher did not have any control over, and does not assume any responsibility for any third-party websites or their content.

  Cover Designed by Paradox Book Covers and Formatting

  To visit the author’s website: http://www.davidbishopbooks.com

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  Matt Kile Mystery Series (in order of release)

  Who Murdered Garson Talmadge, a Matt Kile Mystery

  The Original Alibi, a Matt Kile Mystery

  Money & Murder, a Matt Kile Mystery Short Story

  Find My Little Sister, a Matt Kile Mystery

  The Maltese Pigeon, a Matt Kile Mystery

  Judge Snider’s Folly, a Matt Kile Mystery

  The Year We Had Murder, a Matt Kile Mystery

  Shorter Fiction

  Love & Other Four-letter Words, A Maybe MurderScandalous Behavior

  Twists & Turns of Matrimony and Murder

  Maddie Richards Mystery Series (in order of release)

  The Beholder, a Maddie Richards Mystery

  Death of a Bankster, a Maddie Richards Mystery

  Linda Darby / Ryan Testler Series (in order of release)

  All Linda Darby stories, co-star Ryan Testler

  The Woman, a Linda Darby Story

  Hometown Secrets, a Linda Darby Story

  The First Lady’s Second Man, a Linda Darby Story

  Heart Strike, a Linda Darby Story

  The Ryan Testler Character Appears in:

  The Woman, a Linda Darby Story

  Death of a Bankster, a Maddie Richards Mystery

  Hometown Secrets, a Linda Darby Story

  The First Lady’s Second Man, a Linda Darby Story

  Heart Strike, a Linda Darby Story

  Jack McCall Mystery Series (in order of release)

  The Third Coincidence, a Jack McCall Mystery

  The Blackmail Club, a Jack McCall Mystery

  Game of Masks, a Jack McCall Mystery

  Ladies Lunch Club Murders, a Jack McCall Mystery

  to be released in January, 2020

  Novellas:

  Twists & Turns of Matrimony and Murder

  www.davidbishopbooks.com

  david@davidbishopbooks.com

  DEDICATION.

  This novel is dedicated to my family and all those who have read my novels. I appreciate your interest in my writings, and the faith you display by purchasing my stories. I trust you will enjoy this one. I would be pleased to hear from you after you read it. david@davidbishopbooks.com

  In writing this and other stories, my aim is to create characters with whom readers can relate, like or hate, as they reach deep within the story to learn if those characters get what they deserve, are captured or saved, seduced or simply survive. The connecting magic of the author-character-reader triad rests in the fact that readers, like the characters living within the pages of fiction, have themselves endured trials and tribulations in their own lives. I would like to acknowledge all who have found their way into my life, challenging me and enriching me by their presence, goodness, and affection. And last, but certainly not least, this book, as with my others, is dedicated to those I love. Special thanks to the wonderful people who read early drafts and made suggestions which unfailingly enhance my stories. Thank you.

  Preface

  We move through life confident we know who we are, what we stand for and what we won’t stand for. Then something happens to make us aware of another layer of ourselves, a private internal basement where we store our darkest thoughts, our most anti-social yearnings. A corner accessible only by our inner self. A place where our latent version loiters. Where we store our secret imaginings and plan things of which we want to think ourselves incapable. Does every person have a … basement? Does everyone someday visit their basement? And, most importantly, when one leaves that private darkness, does one bring those things into the light?

  Chapter One

  Today was Friday and Amy O’Sullivan left her desk in city hall like she did to end each week. Her office wasn’t one of the really important ones. Those offices were political. Her office was one necessary for the efficient dispatch of the District of Columbia’s business, as the mayor redefined it from time to time.

  Amy looked about for Craig, her favorite security guard. In cowgirl lingo, Craig’s boots would be welcome in her bunkhouse any night. She didn’t see him. She went through the door and out into the parking lot.

  It was an ordinary Friday. The end of one more ordinary week. In an hour, Amy would learn that ordinary would no longer be part of her life.

  Amy leaned into the breeze and pulled her purse in front and took out her cellphone. She checked for messages. It was part of her routine while walking to her car. Her real focus was on thoughts of the slight curl in Craig’s dark hair, his light blue eyes, the dimple in his chin, and the way his biceps strained the sleeves of his official security shirt. Yesterday she used her friendship network to gain access to his personnel file. He was single.

  Tomorrow, I’ll take the initiative. Lunch, or maybe a room service dinner in the Marriott. Am I that bold?

  As she walked, she refocused on her cell phone. There were no voice messages, but two text messages, neither from Craig. She walked to the corner and, while waiting for the green light, clicked on the first message: $50,000. ONE CHANCE IN FIVE YOU WIN IT ALL. NO COST TO ENTER. The light changed. She stepped off the curb.

  Who wouldn’t want $50,000?

  Amy used her remote to unlock the driver’s door. She got in, closed the door, lowered the driver’s window, and opened her other text message: YOU’RE AN ADVENTUROUS WOMAN. WHAT DO YOU HAVE TO LOSE?

  She stuck her cell in one of the cup holders, started the engine, and turned right leaving the lot.

  Aww, it’s just anoth
er phony solicitation. A come on for some credit card offer.

  It was Friday, her night to put on sloppy clothes and unwind. Amy was thirty-eight and unmarried, but certainly not celibate. She’d had plenty of lovers, a reasonable number anyway. She ran her tongue across her upper lip while enjoying one more brief fantasy of Craig: when she got home, he would be on her private rear patio, drink in hand, steak on the grill, the bottom of an apron just above his cowboy boots. He probably wasn’t a long-term man, but most men weren’t. She was a modern pragmatic woman. No promises were necessary. No “I love you,” was needed. Attraction was essential, of course, along with being a nonsmoker, a regular bather, a good sense of humor, and the intangibles. She couldn’t define or explain the intangibles, but they were a meaty part of her selection process. A guy either had them or, as the lyrics go, walk on by.

  Going home was an automatic pilot function. She got there, went in, and dropped her purse on the table just inside the door. In her master bedroom, she kicked off her shoes, took off her skirt, blouse, and undies, and slipped into an oversized, faded, yellow t-shirt, built for some hairy blue-collar behemoth named Bruno. The sleeves ended below her elbows. The sagging neckline low due to shirt droop rather than fashion. Overall, it was loose enough to allow Craig to squirm up inside with her.

  She opened the refrigerator to get a glass of wine, but her hand stopped short of the open bottle of pinot grigio. An envelope set balanced atop the bottle, a plain, unsealed envelope, its flap up.

  Somebody’s been in my frigging fridge.

  She felt some resistance when she touched the envelope. It was attached by some sort of adhesive. When she was lucid, Amy’s mind was Ginsu sharp, but right now it had the texture of an overripe plum. She tugged the envelope free and looked at it. The front was blank, without postage.

  The post office doesn’t deliver to refrigerators.

  She removed the bottle and shut the fridge. After putting the envelope on the coffee table, she closed her drapes, returned to the kitchen, and poured herself some wine. On the way back to her couch she used a remote to turn on the gas fireplace. Before sitting she paused, thought, turned, returned to the kitchen, poured the wine into the sink, and put the glass in the dishwasher. She opened a bottle of merlot and poured a healthy portion into a fresh glass. This was a red wine kind of night.

  On the couch, she curled her feet under, sipped her merlot, and held the unblemished number-ten business envelope in front of her. She put it on her thigh and slid her hand across its face. There were no lumps. It contained nothing but paper. In her mailbox, with her name and some postage, it would’ve been completely innocent. In her refrigerator, without her name and with no postage it gave rise to numerous unanswered questions.

  She smelled it, nothing. She put her hand flat upon it. It felt cold.

  Must have been in fridge a few hours. Who? How?

  She dropped the envelope on the coffee table, stood up, and quickly walked around her rented ground-floor condo desperately searching to see if anything was missing. A burglar would have taken the television, her computer, shoes, underwear maybe—something.

  Nothing’s missing.

  Back on the couch, she stared at the envelope. Her mouth twitched, mostly her bottom lip.

  Maybe there’s an address inside and a signature at the bottom.

  She blew into the envelope, billowing its sides, and, as anticipated, saw a couple of sheets of paper. She took them out and drummed the folded pages on the palm of her other hand.

  She reached over, pulled the throw off the back of the couch, and spread it over her bare legs. After another sip of wine, she unfolded the letter. A quick glance told her there was no letterhead and no name at the bottom. She began reading:

  Dear Miss O’Sullivan, Contestant #3:

  One day I hope you’ll tell me what must be a fascinating story of how a young woman from Bosnia got an Irish surname. I used Miss because we both know you’ve never been married. So, marriage could not explain how you ended up with the name O’Sullivan. My research indicates that given the horrors of your youth, you could have grown up afraid of your own shadow. Instead you’ve become a smart woman, a bold woman, but a careful one.

  No one knows about my youth.

  She continued reading:

  Being careful, I’m guessing you did not drink from the open bottle of white wine upon which you found my envelope. Your habit of having a glass of wine when you get home from work is a pleasant one. I often do the same thing. Could we be related? If so, our family is a huge one. By now you’ve realized I’m not a burglar. To the contrary, I added a few bottles to your wine storage. I’m confident you’ll enjoy them. For tonight, I guessed you’d pick the merlot. The room temperature of the red and its robust body, right for the insecurity you are understandably feeling. I’m imagining a glass of the merlot rests close to you. The fireplace is likely on, another pleasant habit. I applaud the way you segue from a hard work week into the soft landing of a weekend.

  Take a deep breath, you are under no threat. Relax and read the rest of my letter of invitation.

  Let me start by whetting your appetite for the competition. If you are the winner, you will receive your choice of $50,000 American dollars or, alternatively, you may designate one person to be murdered by yours truly.

  A Murder. Christ. This guy’s a nut job.

  You will automatically be disqualified if: 1) you remove this letter from your home, copy it, or show it to anyone, or 2) before winning or after, you indicate to anyone the person you want murdered. Often I am able to determine the desired victim for my winners without their needing to inform me. When this is possible, it further assures my anonymity. In any event, you need to know public figures are not eligible to be designated for elimination.

  What is required for you to win? It’s simple. The game begins one week from tomorrow night. A limousine will pick you up at your home at six-thirty p.m. and return you home several hours later. You are required to come to the limo wearing the masquerade mask I’ve left in the top drawer of the dresser in your guest bedroom. If you haven’t seen it yet, you may want to take a moment to locate it.

  Amy dropped the letter to the cushion, got up, and rushed to the door of her guest bedroom. Her hand gripped the casing of the door. She reached inside, flipped on the light, and rushed to the dresser.

  Holy shit. It’s there.

  It was gold with black highlights. It wasn’t a full face mask, but the kind that covers the eyes, across the nose, and far enough up the forehead to hide the eyebrows, a half mask. Two red feathers rose from above and to the side of one of the eyeholes. She held it in front of her face and looked in the dresser mirror.

  She started to put it on the nightstand, but changed her mind. Instead, she carried it out to the living room, put it on the coffee table in front of her couch, and continued reading the letter of invitation.