A Shot at Revenge (Niki Dupre Bullet Mysteries Book 2)

Book summary

In "A Shot at Revenge," a series of baffling murders grips investigators as they grapple with seemingly impossible crimes. Private investigator Niki Dupre, drawn into the case by a personal connection, delves into medical records and a forgotten court case, unearthing a complex puzzle. When a drone manufacturer's murder points to a weaponized drone, Niki's pursuit of justice uncovers hidden motives and technological intrigue. With unexpected twists and a relentless race against time, the book promises a gripping tale of deception and the quest for elusive justice.

Excerpt from A Shot at Revenge (Niki Dupre Bullet Mysteries Book 2)

George Adamson took a step and grimaced. The pain traversed from his knee throughout his eighty-one-year-old body. Despite the discomfort, he grinned. The doctor told him less than an hour earlier he could fix the joint. Something about stem cell regeneration. George didn't understand the particulars but they didn't matter. The important thing was he could get rid of that evil walker. The device had a mind of its own. Sometimes it wouldn't go. Sometimes it wouldn't stop. Sometimes it went places George wasn't prepared to go. One time, it rammed into old Mrs. Fernandez right on her butt cheeks when she bent over to pick up a book she had dropped. The manager almost evicted George from the nursing home over the incident. Only by feigning no memory of the moment did he stay. Besides that, Mrs. Fernandez deserved to get a ram on her posterior. She had to be the most obnoxious busybody in the home. If she couldn't find dirt on another patient, she made it up.

George took another step. He walked to the convenience store a block from the nursing home daily. It was his way of feeling independent. The low-crime neighborhood posed no threat. His mind left Mrs. Fernandez and went to the ice cream cone he wanted. Chocolate swirl. His favorite. The old biddies at the home never served ice cream. They decreed it to be unhealthy. What did they know? As long as he could walk the block to the store and back again, George considered himself fit. Despite the pain in his bum knee, he enjoyed the outdoors, and he was about to get his knee fixed. He might skip or hopscotch to the store just to show up the old nurses who seemed determined to torment him.

The smile remained until the bullet disintegrated his heart. 

"I don't get it," said East Baton Rouge Parish Detective Phil Carson as he stood over George's body.

"Me, either," Ralph Norman agreed. He had been Phil's partner for six years, and together they had worked hundreds of homicides. Their record for closures, meaning solving the cases, went unparalleled in the department.

Phil was the no-nonsense lead detective, and Ralph served as comic relief during the intense investigations. The junior detective stood six inches shorter and fifty pounds heavier than the leaner Phil. He always wore a smile, no matter the dire circumstances.

The two asked questions of the people who said they had witnessed the murder. Not a single one had seen the killer, knew where the shot originated or had heard the shot at all. All they could confidently testify to was George had been walking to the store and collapsed.

Phil and Ralph tried their best to reconstruct the scene. The bullet hit George in his upper back and exited his lower stomach. Almost a seventy-five-degree angle. That would mean the shot came from a twenty-three-story building. The problem facing the detectives was that there was no such building close to the murder scene. The largest structure nearby was the nursing home, and it stood a mere three stories.

"Maybe the vic bent over to pick up something," Ralph said, trying to come up with a plausible explanation for the entry and exit wounds.

"If he had, the bullet would have exited around his neck, not his stomach," Phil responded.

"What if he was shot from the front when he bent over? It might exit through the stomach."

Phil paused. His partner might've come up with the only explanation that could possibly make sense. He tried to poke holes in Ralph's theory, just as any defense attorney would at a trial. He turned back to his partner.

"Bend over," Phil said.

Ralph did, but not far enough to accommodate the angle. When he got into the proper position, the junior detective was bent almost double. Phil made a quick line of sight, mimicking the trajectory of the bullet. He finally let Ralph straighten up.

"What do you think?" the junior detective asked, hoping he had come up with a solution.

"How old are you?"

"Forty-one. What does that have to do with the price of crawfish by the sack?"

"According to his ID, Mr. Adamson was eighty-one, almost twice your age," Phil said. "How tough was it for you to bend that far?"

"I damn near passed out." Ralph laughed. "Maybe the old guy was an acrobat or a contortionist. Maybe he liked to kiss his own ass."

"Except every witness said he was walking upright behind his walker before he collapsed."

"You don't have to beat around the obvious." Ralph grinned. "Go ahead and tell me I'm an idiot."

"If you are, then I'm also one," Phil said. "This thing has me completely stumped." 

Mary Chopin didn't hear about the murder of George Adamson. Even if she did, his name wouldn't have meant anything to the seventy-four-year-old. She could barely remember the names of her grandchildren. More than once, Mary had called them by the wrong moniker. It mattered little to them as long as their grandmother showered them with gifts.

A retired school teacher, Mary enjoyed gardening. When her husband succumbed to pancreatic cancer two years earlier, Mary became a widow. After his death, she turned her hobby into an obsession. Her garden was her life. From butter beans, okra, and green onions to cantaloupes and watermelons, Mary grew the best vegetables and fruits in the parish.

People offered to pay her but Mary always refused. Her estate was more than adequate to sustain her limited lifestyle. She and her husband owned their four-bedroom home and two cars in the garage. Her garden supplied her meals.

Mary canned and froze enough vegetables to feed her for a year. After that, she gave away everything from her three-quarter-acre garden. With the rich south Louisiana loam and the frequent afternoon showers, the widow grew enough produce to feed several families.

Mary bent over to pick the black-eyed peas. Each vine had an abundance of long, green pods. Before long, Mary had three five-gallon buckets filled with them. Her friends appreciated the peas but most would let them rot rather than shell them. It was easier to buy a can at the local grocery than spending thirty minutes shelling one bucket of the tasty morsels. Mary didn't want her little prizes to go to waste. So, she shelled the peas herself. It was the only way to ensure her friends would use them.

Mary grabbed a bucket in each hand, and trudged down the middle of a row. She never made it to the end. The widow fell on top of a ripe watermelon. 

"We'll have a bullet this time."

Phil and Ralph had moved into Mary's backyard at the garden's edge.

"Please tell me you've got this figured out," Ralph said. "Because I don't want to bend over again."

"Hey, guys." The feminine voice came from behind them.

Both turned and recognized its source. There was no way to mistake the thick strawberry blonde mane of Niki Dupre. As a private investigator, the expert in Kempo had a better closure rate than the premier team of detectives, and had become an icon in the Baton Rouge area, known as a weapons master in her chosen martial art.

"Hey, Niki." Ralph beamed, always glad to see the attractive PI. "What brings you here?"

"Ms. Chopin was my biology teacher in high school," Niki replied. "I thought I'd offer my services, if you guys don't mind."

"That's okay," Phil said. "We've got it under control."

"Just like Nero had that fire under control." Ralph laughed. "To be honest, we don't have a clue."

"That's not true," Phil said. "We'll get a bullet this time. The last time we didn't find one."

"Last time?" Niki asked. "What last time?"

"We're just speculating," Ralph said. "The circumstances are similar to another murder two days ago."

"What are the similarities?"

"Both were shot from a high vantage point. Nobody heard the shots. Nobody saw the killer. It's almost like the guy sprouts wings after he kills old folks."

"The other victim was elderly?"

"Eighty-one," Phil answered. "According to the records, Ms. Chopin was seventy-four. There could be a connection."

"Was the other victim a teacher?" Niki asked.

Phil shook his head.

"No, he was a retired architect. We'll have to see if they went to church together or had another connection."

"Ms. Chopin went to Zoar Baptist in Central. It's the same church I attend," Niki said.

"Was George Adamson a member there?" Phil asked.

"Not that I know of. But they have two separate sermons on Sunday mornings."

"Do you know if Ms. Chopin frequented the local bars?"

Niki laughed at Ralph's question.

"I don't think she ever had a drop of alcohol in her life. She was the daughter of a Baptist deacon. The hardest thing she ever drank was chicory coffee."

"Ugh." Ralph bent over like he was about to vomit. "I love eating beignets, but I can't stand that coffee. It's like drinking worm piss."

"Ms. Chopin loved it. She would bring it to Sunday School and offer us all a cup. I like it along with something sweet, but not by itself."

"I'd have to be eating pure sugar," Ralph said with a wrinkled nose. "Do you know of any tie between Ms. Chopin and the other victim, George Adamson?"

"Not right offhand," Niki said. "With your permission, I'd be glad to check it out, though."

"I don't know," Phil began. "We…"

"We'd love to have your help, Niki," Ralph interrupted his partner. "Any information you find will be a bonus for us."

Phil shot his junior partner a stern glance. Ralph ignored it completely.