Title:
Half-Built Houses
ISBN:
978-1-62420-315-2
Author:
Eric Keller
Email: kellepc@hotmail.com
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Twitter: NA
Website: NA
Blog: NA
Genre: mystery
Excerpt
Heat Level: 1
Book
Heat Level: 1
TAGLINE
All the taught intrigue and
compelling personalities of a classic, courtroom thriller combined with the
twists and turns of an engrossing murder mystery in a Canadian setting.
BLURB
Charley Ewanuschuk has
been mistreated all his life and now survives by moving through society as
unnoticed as possible. However, when a murder occurs behind the half-built
house he is squatting in society takes notice of the introverted homeless man
as he becomes the prime murder suspect. Brian Cox managed to charm his way into
a good job in a national law firm but, when the recession hit, he learned that
charm is a disposable commodity. Fired by the firm and forced to take on Legal
Aid files to pay the bills, Charley's murder trial becomes Brian's first major
case. However, this will be no straightforward case. As the trial progresses it
becomes apparent forces are working behind the scenes to ensure the homeless
man takes the fall for a crime. Told from the points of view of the accused,
the lawyer, the detective and the manipulator, Half-Built Houses provides all
the thrilling intrigue, clever ingenuity and interesting individuals readers
have come to expect form classic courtroom dramas.
EXCERPT
After the car had been towed away, Charley had gone
back to the basement, but he heard sirens and had to flee before he could
collect his belongings. Knowing he would stand out as an oddity wandering about
in a rich residential area as people started leaving their homes for work, he
headed back across the river to the downtown core where the homeless merely
blended into the cement. There he numbly walked the icy streets before settling
into an ATM kiosk to warm up and rest.
Sitting on the wet floor, he did a quick inventory.
He still had his good coat, two cheeseburgers, four dollars, and shoes, but no
socks, gloves, or hat. It was thirty below and he had nowhere to go, and he
could already feel the dirty slush on the floor soaking through his jeans. Over
all the years he had been in Calgary, Charley had been in some extremely
difficult spots, but this was one of the worst situations he had faced.
As he pulled one of the slightly squashed
cheeseburgers out of his pocket, the key to the cheap padlock he had put on the
basement door fell onto the floor. He picked it up. Despite being twenty-five
years old, this was the only key he had ever owned. He remembered the joy he
felt when he closed the lock for the first time. It was more than simply having
a place of his own; it was a sense of survivor's pride because he could look
past making it through each day and ponder a future for himself. Now he
realized he could not be found carrying the key, so he slipped it into the slot
in the bank machine, the slot where people threw away their receipts showing
how much money they had in their account.
He was only able to stay in the kiosk for an hour
before a security guard found him. The guard clearly did not want to send the
pathetic man out into the exceptionally harsh cold, but he sheepishly said that
the bank employees would be showing up soon, and they would give him grief if
they found someone sleeping next to the bank machine. Charley left without a
word.
Having nowhere else to go, he instinctively walked
to the day labourer corner. Because the weather was so bad and he was there so
early, he got picked up right away to shovel snow. Charley had worked for the
boss before, and the man took pity on him, giving him a good pair of gloves and
a toque.
~ * ~
Jenkins was checking missing person reports when
Wilson strutted into the office and dropped an enlarged printout of a library
card on his desk. The picture on the card was of a thin, unsmiling young man
with thick glasses and messy hair. It matched the description the neighbour at
the crime scene had given them. Wilson sat down and said, "Our basement
squatter has a name. Charley Ewanuschuk. The address and phone number he gave
are fakes though."
"Did anyone at the library know him?"
"Sort of. One of the librarians said the guy's
been coming in about once a week for years, but she doesn't think he's ever
said a word to anybody. She did say he was cleaner than the other homeless
people and never had a late book, so he has that going for him."
"A name and a picture. We've found people with
less." Jenkins, now feeling hopeful this would be a quicker case than he
had anticipated, stood up and grabbed his coat. "Let's go check the usual
spots."
~ * ~
Even though he had been extremely tired and his
feet had screamed with cold, Charley had been content to push a shovel all day
as the mundane, physical work was relaxing and allowed him to ponder his
situation. By the end of the day, he had forced himself to conclude it was not
hopeless. He could not go back to the house he had been using, but that did not
mean he could not find another abandoned construction site to use. It would
take some time, but he had time; he had little else, but he had time. When the
work was done, he was driven back to the corner, given sixty dollars, and told
to keep the gloves and the hat. It was enough money to get a room at the hostel
for the night. Life would continue to be hard, but it would not be impossible.
As he started walking away, a truck pulled up,
unloading another crew of day labourers, and one of the workers called out to
him, "Hey, you. Guy who never talks."
He recognized the man as a regular at the corner
whom he had worked with a few times. He pointed at himself questioningly.
"Yeah, you. Just thought you should know that
the cops were out here this morning showing your picture around. You may want
to lay low for a few days."
The man knew Charley well enough not to expect a
response, so he turned to jog after his friends, leaving Charley alone on the
frozen sidewalk. Renewed panic struck at him, easily pushing away the optimism
he had gained throughout the day. He had not even considered the police would
look for him. He had always seen himself as a mere visitor moving about beneath
the notice of the real inhabitants of the city, so the thought that someone
would look for him never occurred to him. Charley had never been to jail, but
he had overheard much about the place from day labourers, and being locked up
was one of his greatest fears among an impressive list of fears. It was not actually
being deprived of his freedom so much as being constantly surrounded by people
with no privacy or reprieve that he knew would be an unimaginable hell for him.
He could not go to jail.
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