A Jonathon Stone Mystery Short Story
Author: James Moushon
AVAILABLE at Amazon
A female CIA agent is found dead in a motel in Long Beach and her husband, a Long Beach detective, quickly becomes the prime suspect. Jonathon Stone is given the task of investigating the murder of one of his own. His findings reveal the dead agent’s unscheduled trips to the Middle East, a cover-up by the FBI and espionage.
Excerpt from Operation Misdirection
Roxie was moving from table to table, wielding a pot of coffee. She was a large Mexican lady with the heart of gold as long as the Lakers or Dodgers were winning. Essie’s Coffee Shop is my favorite place for my morning wake-up.
The morning folks were unusually talkative. I waved to Roxie on the way by.
“What’s going on Roxs?”
Everyone called her Roxs.
“You didn’t hear. They found some lady shot dead down the street at the Fremont Motel.”
I looked around. This was the most excitement I’d seen in here for a while. Now I could see the patrol cars passing by. I took a drink of my coffee and watched the parade of emergency vehicles. Downtown Long Beach was always full of surprises.
My cell phone started buzzing on the counter. When we had the office downtown, I was always at work it seemed. Now being an at-large asset for the CIA, my calls came anytime, day or night. The ID told me it was my boss, Russ Evans.
“Russ, how’s San Francisco?”
“Jon, we have a problem. One of our agents was just found shot to death down in your neck of the woods. I need for you to check it out. Her name was Sara Turner. She was assigned to a special task force that I can’t talk about over the phone. I’m sending Chuck down to help.”
“I’ll check in with the local Leos and see what’s up.”
Well, now I was glad last night was a short night at the casino. I had passed on that last drink which now seemed like a good decision.
I checked my phone directory and called Detective Dave Dungee of the Long Beach Police.
“Dungee,” the harsh voice on the other end said.
“Detective, this is Jonathon Stone. I understand you found a dead woman this morning. Her name was Sara Turner.”
“I don’t have that. Where are you getting this information?”
“I got a call from San Francisco. She is a CIA Agent.”
“Just a second. Let me check on something. We have a Jane Doe. Let me see if they have ID’d her yet.”
I waited for a minute or so.
“Jon, we just got a match on her prints. Your lady is our Jane Doe. There was no ID at the scene.”
“Detective, I need to tag along on this one.”
“I can’t let you do that. This is a local matter.”
It looked like I might have to pull the National Security card on this.
“I’ll go through channels, Dave. Get back to you. Where did this happen?”
“At the Fremont Motel, downtown,” he replied.
I stared at the phone. I paid my bill and headed down the street toward the crime scene. This was not even a block away. The crowd had already surrounded the motel. What was Turner doing here? It’s a long way from San Francisco.