Spy Thriller Starts off in Ellicott City

Baltimore author, J. Kinkade's recently published spy thriller, The Zero Line, starts off in, of all places, historic Ellicott City! The story tells of a young couple that falls captive to the allure of espionage. Mitch McKenna is a former Marine pilot, and Polly is a housewife who, unbeknownst to Mitch, can wield an Uzi with the best of them.

This high-octane read is an amazing debut that will keep you on the edge of your seat. Read all about the Ellicott City reference in the excerpt below. You can buy The Zero Line or borrow it for free on Amazon. 

CHAPTER THREE

Historic Ellicott City, MD

MITCH AND Polly drove five miles down Frederick Road to Historic Ellicott City, a town known for its antique shops and quaint breweries. As close as Ellicott City was to Baltimore, the two cities couldn't be more different, especially in terms of crime rates. Not that the storybook town didn’t have its share of unsavory characters—it did. But the distinction was, they were all dead.

Ghosts.

Ellicott City was haunted. Or so the residents claimed. They based the assertion on psychic lore that granite attracts and channels spiritual energy. And Ellicott City was not only carved out of granite, it was also built on a bed of the earth's signature, igneous rock. True or not, the claim brought in plenty of visitors and regulars. As for the McKennas? Today, they just came for coffee and answers.

Mitch stopped at the light under the railroad tracks at the gateway to Ellicott City and scanned the street for parking. When the light turned, Mitch made an awkward u-turn and pulled into an empty space. Polly got out and waited for him in front of the Phoenix Emporium, a laid-back pub that served cold beer and seafood. Mitch took her hand and they continued uptown to their favorite morning haunt, Bean Hollow.

The woody aroma of cinnamon scones spilled out into the street before Mitch opened the door. He ushered Polly inside and a collection of hanging bells heralded their entry.

"Morning, Trevor." Mitch offered a quick wave to the gangly, goateed barista behind the counter.

Trevor was finishing up with an elderly couple, but he gave a subtle nod to signal he knew what the McKennas wanted: a small cappuccino for Polly and a French roast for Mitch. They found a table in the back near an industrial sized coffee roaster. The equipment had been a centerpiece in the shop for years, and even though it took up a decent amount of space, the clientele didn't seem to mind. The owner roasted beans once a week to produce some of the finest coffee the area had to offer. And the aroma alone was worth the space it occupied. Mitch and Polly sat at one of a handful of wooden tables aligned against a wall that showcased Bean Hollow's sampling of artwork for August—the haunting paintings of a local Cuban artist. Dark-haired women gazed longingly at the sea, and dark-skinned men in turquoise Guayaberas carried bongos on the beach at sunset. The artwork drummed up a sultry heat that prompted the customers to experience a sudden need for intimacy. Mitch wasn't immune to the effect. He pulled up a chair and sat down next to Polly.

Moments later Trevor came by with two steaming mugs and set them down. "How's the new Harley?" he asked Mitch.

"Good. It's parked in the garage right now." 

"Shame. It's a nice day. You should be ridin'."

Mitch shrugged. "Got a beautiful lady with me, and there's no room for passengers on the Rocker."

Trevor gave a gloomy nod. On his way back to the counter, he murmured, "Lady or no, I'd be ridin'."

Polly hummed a little tune and cast an expectant look at Mitch. "Looks like you have a following."

"He's just into Harleys." Mitch tipped up his mug and took a drink.

"I think he's into you."

Mitch laughed, and nearly choked.

"We're talking serious man-crush."

He wiped his mouth and grinned. "Maybe you're just jealous that he's not into you. He seems to be your type." 

"Hardly. Besides, I'm obviously attracted to men who spend way too much money on their vehicles. I think Trevor drives a Gremlin."

"A ten speed, actually," Mitch said to Polly's laughter. But he wasn't feeling jovial. Many conversations these days led back to the Harley, yet the diversions always took him by surprise, including today. But he didn't let that stop him. "Look, the Rocker is a necessity. Gas prices have skyrocketed."

"Right. Gas prices."

"Yeah. That's right."

"You want to know what I think?"

Mitch groaned. He knew very well what she thought. "Here it comes."

"I think you miss being a Marine. You miss the excitement. And the danger. The Harley brings a little of that back into your life."

Mitch shook his head. The bike was way more than that. "We’re not going there," is all he could think of to say about the topic, and then he took control of the conversation.

"You talked in your sleep last night."

Polly's expression went from smug to troubled as soon as he said it, just as it had the last time he brought up her late night habit. And like the times before, Mitch couldn't help but speculate about her unease.

"So?" Polly said, recovering nicely. "What does that have to do with anything?"

Their eye contact did not shift, Mitch made sure of it. "Who's Elliott?"

One blink, then two. Polly was thinking of an answer, one Mitch would believe. He knew her well enough to recognize that. She'd called out names in her sleep before. One time it was 'Adam.' Another time 'Grace.' But calling out 'Elliott' happened frequently, maybe too frequently. He hoped one day she'd tell him about 'Elliott.' But today wasn't going to be that day. Kidding himself wasn't a part of his repertoire.

"I have no idea," Polly finally said. And then she continued before Mitch could ask any more about the dream.  "But the most important question is, who is Robert Morison?"

He thought for a moment, and gave her a break. Pressuring her felt wrong. He would let it go for now.  "No clue. But maybe the owner of Midnight Dreams knows."

"She's not going to know who he is. I mean, if she knew about the name on the back she probably would have told me. Right?"

"Maybe. Maybe not." Mitch held up his mug, and cradled it. "What's her name?"

"Janice Bonnigal." 

"Sounds like someone who could help us. Barnacle, you say?"

Polly rolled her eyes. "Bonnigal. And I doubt she'll know."

Trevor overheard them and stopped at their table on the way to the kitchen. "Janice Bonnigal? Dude," he said to Polly, who appeared uncomfortable with the casual moniker. "The lady's been in this town for ages. Knows everything and everybody." He laughed and scratched his chin. "If she doesn't have all the answers, then no one does…"

A COLLECTION of ‘antique’ dice in a crystal bowl near a cheap, miniature craps table at the Midnight Dreams antique store earned Mitch’s attention, but not for the right reasons. He had been looking for a nice pair of dice to add to his collection, but these were not the ones he had in mind. He picked out a couple and glanced at a typed note card near the display. It read: FOR CRAPS. He smiled at the mixed message and rubbed his fingers over the badly rounded corners. Each die was scratched beyond repair and no two matched.

"They’re for craps," said a petite store clerk wearing funky black glasses and bright green leotards.

"I can see that." Mitch laughed at the irony. "I can see that." He tossed the pair back into the bowl with no remorse and followed a serpentine path through the cluttered shop to join his wife at the checkout counter.

Polly was chatting with Janice Bonnigal, a prim, elderly woman who smelled of baby powder and peppermint oil. The old gal peered into her rimless spectacles at a thin, black ledger. "Robert Morison, Robert Morison." Her trembling voice reflected her age. "You say the name was stamped on the back of the tall case?" A smudge of red lipstick on her front tooth marred some otherwise perfect ivory dentures.

"A murder confession, actually. And it was written," Polly said. "Forcibly so. In pen."

"Ah, written." Mrs. Bonnigal flipped through a thick list of sellers. "Murder confession. In pen. How odd." She licked her fingers at each turn of the page and tapped her foot. "No, Mrs. McKenna, I don’t see Robert Morison on the sellers’ list. He’s never done business with me. That’s for certain. Maybe he’s the former owner."

Mitch put a hand on Polly's shoulder and offered up his unsolicited opinion. "Probably so." He hoped the discussion would end there. To his disappointment, Mrs. Bonnigal continued.

"The clock has an interesting history, as you know. Joseph Ellicott only made a few of these. Three hundred, I believe. The mechanics of the clock are pretty standard, but his clocks are hard to come by, so that’s why the price was what it was."

"I never knew one of the Ellicott brothers was a clock maker." Polly turned to Mitch. "Did you?"

He did his best to appear deliberative, and shook his head regretfully. The things he didn't know about the Ellicott brothers could fill a hard drive.

"Not many people around here do," Mrs. Bonnigal said. "Most are aware the brothers founded the mills, but few have heard about Joseph and his clocks. That’s probably why your clock took so long to sell. No one understood the real value of it."

Mitch bit his tongue. A more likely reason could be tied to the clock’s downright ugliness. He watched the salesgirl in green leotards as she dusted each piece of a vintage Chinese chess set with an electric blue feather duster.

"Were you aware the clock had a secret compartment?" Polly asked.

Mrs. Bonnigal cocked her head. "Secret compartment?"

"Yes," Polly said. "And we found a key in it."

"A key," Mrs. Bonnigal said and pursed her lips. "Now that is strange. None of the Joseph Ellicott pieces are associated with any secret compartments."

"Is it possible our clock isn't a Joseph Ellicott?" Mitch asked, hoping like hell he could get a refund.

"Oh, no, Mr. McKenna. The clock is genuine. But the secret compartment, I'm afraid, is not. It must have been added some time after the clock was made."

"Maybe even by the previous owner," Polly said in a whisper.

"Perhaps," Mrs. Bonnigal said, noting Polly's frustration in not solving the mystery. "Well, dear, the only paperwork I have indicates that before coming here, the clock was in Lancaster, at a shop called Pennsylvania Dutch Antiques. Before that, our sister shop in York, Mason Dixon Antiques, displayed it for two decades. But no one seemed to appreciate it. The shop owner in Lancaster shipped it here thinking it would have a better chance of a sale, since it’s a Joseph Ellicott. And they were right." Mrs. Bonnigal smiled with vindication.

A longhaired, white cat jumped up from the floor and landed with inherent stealth on the counter. Only a tiny bell dangling from a pale pink collar announced its arrival.

"Who sold it to Mason Dixon Antiques?" Polly asked. "Do you know?"

Mrs. Bonnigal tended to the cat and held the document a good distance from her aging eyes. "An antique shop on the eastern shore. I don’t have any records of where it was before that."

"Do you have the name of the shop? Or the city?"

"Oh, yes," Mrs. Bonnigal said. "My records are quite complete. The clock was sold to Mason Dixon Antiques from a shop in Easton, Maryland. Evan Pollock is the man you want to see. Last Chance Antiques."

The salesgirl glanced up and adjusted her oversized glasses. She and Mrs. Bonnigal shared a peculiar look.

Polly grinned and glanced at Mitch. "Last Chance. How fitting. It sounds perfect."

Mrs. Bonnigal's reaction to Polly's comment went beyond skeptical—it was one of complete and utter disdain. "Last Chance Antiques is far from perfect," she said. "And if I were you, I wouldn't stay longer with Mr. Pollock than absolutely necessary."

Polly's eyes grew wide. "Why not?"

Mrs. Bonnigal gave a barely perceptible shudder and shook her head. It was clear she would share no more than she already had. She replaced the list of sellers under the counter and disappeared into the blackness of the cluttered shop with Polly's question unanswered.

The clerk, who had been feather-dusting the Bishop, stopped her work and got Polly's attention by clearing her throat. "Everyone in the antiques business knows Evan Pollock," she whispered. Then she glanced back at the room into which Mrs. Bonnigal disappeared.

"And why is Last Chance Antiques 'less than perfect'?" Polly asked in a hush.

Before moving on to dust the Knight, she answered in a singsong voice. "You'll see."