Nobody - Softcover

Mapes, Creston

Softcover

ISBN 10: 1795650532 ISBN 13: 9781795650533

Publisher: Independently published, 2007

Synopsis

They Said He Was a Nobody. They Were Dead Wrong.
When reporter Hudson Ambrose hears an early morning call on his police scanner about aninjured person at a bus stop on Las Vegas Boulevard, he rushes to the scene to get the scoop.
His world is blown off its axis when he discovers a murdered homeless man with abankbook in his pocket showing a balance of almost one million dollars. Should he wait forthe police, knowing the case will get lost in reams of red tape, or swipe the bankbook andtake the investigation—and perhaps a chunk of the money—into his own hands?
With sirens bearing down on the scene, Hudson makes an impulse decision that whiskshim on a frantic search for answers, not only about the mysterious dead man, but about thelost soul lurking within himself.
Uncovering bizarre links between a plane crash, a Las Vegas pit boss, a dirty cop, and awidowed Atlanta business mogul, Hudson is forced to find out: who was Chester Holte,what was he doing on the streets, and why are his homeless friends convinced he was anangel in disguise?
With tension on every page, Amazon #1 Best-Selling author Creston Mapes demonstrates why he is a "Top Pick" among mystery, fiction and thriller lovers.
PRIASE FOR NOBODY
“Creston Mapes has given us a wonderful gift with Nobody. The story compels, the pages fly, the city of Las Vegas pulsates with life, and the twists keep coming. We can all benefit from the message of this book, and once you start it, you won't be able to put it down. Nobody rocks.” — Jud Wilhite, author of Stripped and pastor of Central Christian Church in Las Vegas
“Nobody was absolutely riveting from the opening scene to the final page... This book goes straight to the top of my highly recommended list.” - Deborah Raney, Best-selling Author
“A wild ride...a captivating mystery.” - Christian Retailing
“A taut, entertaining novel of mystery, intrigue and spiritual truth. Creston Mapes deals a winning hand in Nobody.” - James Scott Bell, Best-selling Author
“Tantalizing storytelling and unique plot twists abound. A winner.” - Romantic Times
“A savory tale sizzling with deceit, greed, and selfish ambition, seasoned with just the right measure of grace. Highly recommended!” - Kathy Herman, Best-selling Author
“An excellent murder mystery.” - Christian Fiction Review
“Nobody had me fascinated from the first paragraph and kept the surprises coming to the very end. From now on I'll read anything by Creston Mapes the instant it hits the shelves.” - Athol Dickson, Best-selling Author
“A great thriller. Don't miss this one.” - Linda Hall, Best-selling Author
“Read this book where you can make a little noise. From the time Hudson Ambrose dips his hand into a dead man's pocket until the momentthis novel ends, you're going to find yourself talking back at the pages.” - Tom Morrisey, Best-selling Author
“When it comes to thrilling, fast-paced and provocative, I didn't think Creston could ever top Dark Star, but he has! And it's Nobody!” - Wanda Dyson, Best-selling Author
“Mapes sculpts a story of suspense and beauty while guiding the reader to the ultimate ending, redemption...A page-turning thriller.” - Patti Callahan Henry, Best-selling Author
“Mapes has a way with words. And a way with characters. And a way with dialogue. And a way with story. Read this one. If you can stand the glimpse in the mirror.” - Melanie Wells, Best-selling Author

About this title

From the Author

Excerpt - Chapter 1. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
I'd seen stiffs at crime scenes before, one flat on his back in the middle of his garage with a twelve-inch meat cleaver sticking straight up out of his rib cage like a Halloween prank; self-inflicted, to boot.

But this one beat all.

I got there before the cops. Saw the guy from my Mustang GT. It was 5:54 a.m.

He was positioned upright at one of the dozens of covered bus stops along the Strip. Beneath flickering fluorescents, it looked as if he was just sleeping, like a thousand other bums scattered like garbage across the sand-blown outskirts of "fabulous Las Vegas." I rolled down my passenger window and leaned closer. Blood, dark like burgundy wine, but thicker-a pool of it, absorbed into the seat of his pants and ran shiny down the concrete block he was perched on, forming another smaller puddle beneath his black Converse high tops.

I shivered, remembering the call I'd heard on the scanner in the newsroom at the Review-Journal. Las Vegas Metro Police got an anonymous call about a potential shooting at the Civic Center North bus stop. I was wrapping up the obits and crime beat from the night shift and had some time to blow, so I headed out.

Leaving my car parked in a vacant lot along Las Vegas Boulevard, I did a three-sixty as I approached the body but saw no one. There was plenty of traffic, because Las Vegas was always pulsating with life, but this was not an obvious crime scene yet.

For more than eight minutes I waited, finally sitting right next to that dead man, with the cops nowhere to be found. That's the way they were in Vegas, slow as sludge, especially if it had anything to do with the homeless. For all I knew, it might have been another hour before they showed.

That's when I thought about searching him. Nothing bad, just find the wound, maybe get an ID, see if he had anything else on him. It was a fleeting thought. But as another minute, two, then three crept by, the vapor of the idea began to crystallize. I pictured how everything would come to a painful standstill once the cops finally arrived. They would boot me, tape off the area, and withhold the bum's identity and cause of death until it was old news.
My heart rate kicked up a notch. I had no gloves. Would I leave prints? On what, clothes? It's not like they're going to go over this nobody with a fine-tooth comb. At first glance I wasn't sure where the wound was. Blood covered the upper quarter of his torso. Ignoring my own sick disregard for the human being next to me, I scoped the area again, saw no one near, and gently leaned his 150-or-so-pound frame forward six inches.

To the touch, his body felt normal, as if he were still alive. There was no exit wound on his back. Dropping to one knee, I examined the bloody mess at the upper left portion of his chest. His coat was torn there, and yes, there was a bloody hole. Whether it was a messy knife wound or a bullet hole, I wasn't sure.

That was as far as I should have gone. In fact, knowing myself-that I would dare to do more if the fuzz didn't show up soon-I passed the time by jotting notes on the pad I always kept in my back pocket.

He had a thatch of red hair, bleached the color of sand by the scorching Nevada sun. The city had felt like Hades lately, going on seven consecutive days of 109 degrees or better. His peaceful, middleaged face, the side part in his hair, and the back of his hands and neck were a burnt brownish red; not raw sunburn, mind you-he was way beyond sunburn.

The stubble on his face was speckled blond and gray. He wore a gold T-shirt with dirty creases and a black, lightweight overcoat unbuttoned. Funny thing is, he didn't smell bad. In fact, he smelled clean, like laundry soap. The pants were navy Dickies, and each sneaker had a hole just above the big toe. He wore two pair of thick gray socks on each foot. Perhaps most odd were his left ear and wrist. The skin on each looked melted, as if it had been surgically repaired with some sort of skin graft.

I was still within the bounds of the law. I'd taken my time with the notes, describing the scene, the wound, and the slumping corpse next to me-and hoping the LVMPD would hurry up and get here before I did something both stupid and illegal.

A steady flow of cars darted north and south, their drivers oblivious to the dead man twenty feet away. As always in Las Vegas, nightlife rolled seamlessly into morning within the mammoth hotels up and down the Strip.

My time limit had expired. The cops didn't care. Likely, no one cared about this destitute beggar. A few hours ago he'd probably been as nasty and senile as the rest of the riffraff who shake their fists and wag their heads at me when I drive past them on Owens or D Loop.

Who would know if I searched the guy? My editor didn't know I was here, no one did. My eyes darted about. My heart stormed high in my chest. And then I just did it-reached into his shallow outside coat pockets. Nothing there. Easing back his thin coat, I found an inside pocket-empty. I scanned again for onlookers and saw none. I was doing him and his family a favor by trying to identify him. As I braced him at the shoulder with my left hand, I jammed my right into his pants pocket. Again, nothing.

Convinced the Las Vegans breezing up and down the Strip were both oblivious to the crime scene and in a colossal hurry, I filled my lungs with morning air and took another plunge. Being careful to swing around the puddle of blood in front of him, I changed sides, leaned him forward, and slid my hand beneath his coat and into one back pocket, then the next. No wallet. The guy had nothing. Or so I thought, until I propped him up firmly by the opposite shoulder and stuffed my hand into that last front pocket of his navy Dickies.

Bingo.

He had something. Not much, but something.

Getting my fingers around what felt like some folded papers, I pulled, but my fist caught. My prints were on whatever was in that pocket. The sound of sirens arose far off from the south. My head jumped, and sweat started to bead on my forehead. Seeing no police lights, I braced him again and twisted my wrist back and forth, yanking hard. My heart almost catapulted from my throat as the man's stomach gurgled and his head dropped and swung toward me, as if he'd decided to watch.

Trying awkwardly, desperately, to square the man's hunching shoulders and swivel his jaw back to where it had been, I panicked, as his entire upper body started to collapse, quite unlike I'd found it.

Blue police lights canvassed the neon skyline.

I rehearsed excuses, lies, the truth-any way out of the developing mess. Then I realized the only way out was to get out.

But the object I'd ripped from the man was still in my hand. I looked down. It was a tattered bankbook with a worn maroon cover. As the screams from the sirens grew louder, my trembling fingers found the last page and the handwritten balance: $689,800.

The bus stop spun.

I felt my fingers press firmly into my forehead, as if trying to steady the ship.

He was rich.It didn't compute.

Figure it out later. Get out!I stood to run, but something fell from the book, splattering into the puddle at the man's feet. A key, now three-fourths covered in blood.

I froze.

The sirens beckoned me to look up.

A squad car was in view, maybe a mile down the Strip.

Something inside told me to give up, wait for them, explain what happened.

Something else jolted me to the ground where I plucked the blood-drenched key from the crimson puddle and bolted toward my car.

Sprinting faster than I had since I was a boy, my mind wound down to slow motion, and I became disgusted by the cool, thick liquid Making my fingers stick grotesquely to the palm of my clenched hand. But I was even more repulsed by the type of man I'd become- stealing from a bum.

            

Edition details

• Publisher: Independently published
• Publication date: 2007
• ISBN 10: 1795650532
• ISBN 13: 9781795650533
• Binding: Paperback
• Language: English
• Number of pages: 358