The Devil At The Door by Jack Molloy

Author:Jack Molloy
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Publisher: Baron Hall Inc.
Published: 2012-05-26T22:00:00+00:00

RAISING THE STAKES

Philip would not hurt a fly. I know he is innocent. I love him now and always will. Philip is a beautiful person. Megan McAllister

SHE lay motionless in the doorway of her hotel room on the 20th floor - Room 2034 of the Copley Marriot in downtown Boston. She was face down, her nut brown hair cascading over the carpet, her head and torso poking out into the corridor, her legs disappearing beyond the doorway and into the room. Copious amounts of blood from her chest and mouth seeped into the short pile in dark, widening stains and her flesh was already pallid. She had been struck several times on the head with a heavy object – possibly a gun – and she had been shot three times at close range. Two of the bullets had torn through a breast, ribs and a lung which rapidly filled with blood. The third had shredded part of her heart and shattered her spine.

She was discovered by another hotel guest, a New York realtor, who emerged from a neighboring room after shrill screams and the sounds of a struggle interrupted her late night reading - a labyrinthine Nineties Noir crime thriller called Manhattan Nocturne.

When she realized that she was looking at a big city crime story unfolding before her in real life, she yelled for help. The woman bleeding on the floor was barely alive and fading by the second, her massive chest wound beyond repair. The gunman must have fled just seconds earlier. Strangely, no-one in the neighboring rooms had heard gunshots, but a mirror in Room 2034 told the story. There were little star-like craters in the glass with spider’s web cracks around them.

Hotel security was summoned, then paramedics, then police. All noticed she was wearing, on only one wrist, a plastic handcuff, the white disposable restraints police use for large-scale arrests during protest marches and sporting events. The rapidly dying woman was taken to the hospital but there was very little the Emergency Room doctors there could do. She was declared dead within minutes of her arrival and moved to the Medical Examiner’s office for an autopsy.

Her name was Julissa Brisman.

Julissa was an attractive, 26-year-old street smart New Yorker who once harbored dreams of being a successful model and actress. She was attractive, just 5’ 3” tall and 105 pounds with a stunning figure, full, sensuous lips, dark expressive eyes and a feisty, upbeat personality.

Mark Pines, a 62-year-old photographer and multimedia tech-head had befriended her. “She looked gorgeous off camera. She looked gorgeous on camera,” he recalled. “She was wonderful, sharp, bubbly, bright, and open. She had a rapport with the camera.”

Matthew Terhune, a Manhattan commercial photographer who shot a portfolio for Julissa, agrees. “She was always bouncy, caffeinated. She was very photogenic. Good facial expressions. I liked working with her a lot.”

What she lacked, however, was a break and either a talent or a look which would have set her apart from tens of thousands of young attractive women with similar aspirations.

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