THE
SHOOTER
PETER O’MAHONEY
The Shooter: A Gripping Crime Thriller
Peter O’Mahoney
Copyright © 2021
Published by Roam Free Publishing
1st edition.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior permission in writing of the publisher. This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to any person, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
THE SHOOTER
JACK VALENTINE SERIES BOOK 3
PETER O’MAHONEY
Also by Peter O’Mahoney
*****
In the Jack Valentine Series:
Gates of Power
Stolen Power
*****
In the Tex Hunter Series:
Power and Justice
Faith and Justice
Corrupt Justice
Deadly Justice
Natural Justice
*****
In the Bill Harvey Legal Thriller Series:
Redeeming Justice
Fire and Justice
Will of Justice
A Time for Justice
Truth and Justice
*****
Chapter 1
Nothing ever prepares you for the smell of death.
It’s a stench, a rancid stink that soaks into your nostrils, tickles your throat, and tempts you to gag. It’s a rank and pungent odor that thickens the air with anguish, soaking into your clothes. No amount of holding your breath, distraction, or perfume can stop the attack on the senses. There’s a scientific reason for the putrid smell, the breakdown of amino acids in the deceased, but no matter which way you describe it, no matter how many times you read about it, nothing prepares you for that first hit.
Standing in the foyer of the exclusive Five-Five apartment building on the west side of the Chicago River, I took a number of deep breaths, trying to calm myself. I knew the smell would be soaked into the walls of the apartment I was about to walk into. In my years as a private investigator, I’d like to say that I’ve gotten used to, at least accustomed to, the smell, but that would be a lie. The smell still gets me every time.
The rising sun threw a dirty orange glow over the Chicago skyline as I waited in the foyer. I leaned against the wall near the elevators, looking out the window, a sense of despondency washing over me as I watched people on the sidewalk, unaware, caught up in their own worlds, ignorant of the violence that was only a short distance away. The Five-Five, so named after its address on North Clinton St. in West Loop Gate, only a stone’s throw from Downtown Chicago, was a recently constructed fashionable residence, reserved for those with enough excess cash to waste on grand opulence. The spacious foyer was as large as my apartment, although my apartment didn’t have tiled floors, spotless walls, or fancy lights hanging from the ceiling. Nor did it have a doorman, security cameras, or fancy elevators. But none of that excessive display of wealth was going to change what I was about to walk into.
“This is a nice place, Jack.” Casey May, the partner in my private investigation firm, said as she stepped through the revolving doors into the foyer. I grunted my response. “Hmm,” she continued. “I can see someone has their grumpy pants on today. No time for a coffee?”
I eyed one of the cardboard cups in her hands with ‘Professor Coffee’ scrawled across it.
“Cut the chirpiness, Casey. It’s way too early. If you want to do more case work, as partners, then you’d better understand that mornings aren’t the ideal time to talk to me.”
“Oh, those clients are just so damned inconsiderate, getting you out of bed before the alarm.” Casey moved towards me and held out one of the cups, smiling broadly. “For you. I got it from the little place across the street while I was waiting. Professor Coffee. Nice staff in there. Friendly. Mine’s a decaf because I’m cutting back. Now come on, as much as I love standing here marveling at the nuances of morning life with you, someone has to help this poor man upstairs.”
I took the coffee, thanked her, and then savored the first sip. We’d received the phone call the night before from a man desperate for help. A defense lawyer had reportedly shot himself in his apartment, but his friend and law firm colleague, Kenneth Daley, was sure that it was murder. Daley pleaded with the cops to investigate the death further, to at least look at the other options, but they wouldn’t listen. For the cops, it was open and shut—a single, middle-aged defense attorney had enough of this life and decided to end it all. The cops only spent a day on the case before they closed the file.
“Who cuts back on coffee?” I asked as we walked towards the elevators. “What sort of madness is that?”
“That’s your biggest concern right now? My caffeine intake? Not the possible murder on the top floor?” Casey raised an eyebrow.
Casey had recently dyed her hair darker, from blonde to a dark brunette, and it suited her. Although she only came up to my shoulder, most people did, she could still intimidate a lot of people. I’d first met Casey through her investigative journalism when she approached me for advice on bugging devices. We just clicked. I liked her no-nonsense way of dealing with things, and soon she was my assistant, and now, she was a partner in the business.
“Nice hair color. I like it.” I commented. “It suits you.”
“I’d suggest that you dye your hair, but those new touches of gray hair sort of suit you as well. Makes you look less immature.” She winked. She was tempting fate by teasing me this early in the morning, but I let it slide. As the elevator arrived, we entered, and Casey pressed floor number twenty-five for the penthouse. “So, this could be a high profile one, Jack. Big money in these parts.”
“That’s why you’re here.” I replied. “To make sure that I don’t screw this up.”
The trip to the top floor was quick, just enough time to sip my coffee for a hit of caffeine. As soon as the elevator doors opened, I dumped the empty cup in the trash can next to the elevator and then proceeded along the carpeted hallway. Our client was waiting next to the door to penthouse number five.
“Jack Valentine?” The dark-haired skinny man was well-dressed for 6:05 am—sharp suit, hair slicked back, freshly shaven.
“I am.” I offered my hand. “And this is my partner, Casey May.”
“Pleased to meet you. Kenneth Daley.” His handshake was firm. “Thank you for coming up. They only took the police tape down late last night. I thought it would be best if you guys have a look around as soon as you could. They called to tell me the apartment was no longer a crime scene, and that’s when I called you. The crime scene cleaning crew are due to come through this morning, but like you said on the phone, it’s best to have a look before then.”
Kenneth Daley called my office at 4:55pm yesterday, only five minutes before I was going to walk out the door. He talked for the next hour, and five minutes after our call ended, I had an extra fifteen thousand dollars in my business account. Daley wasn’t messing around, and he wanted us to move fast.
“So, nothing’s been cleaned since the cops left?” I asked, nodding towards the door.
“The PD took the body and the forensic team removed some chunks of dried blood, but wow, the smell is still hanging in the air. They gave the preliminary police report to me as well. Anthony Waltz shot himself in the carotid artery. He had no family, and I’m listed as his closest contact,” Daley handed the police file to Casey. “The detectives have already written it up as a suicide, but I don’t believe it. I just don’t see Waltz doing that. He wasn’t the type of guy to give up.”
“And you want us to make sure there’s nothing suspicious about it?”
“That’s right.�
� Daley leaned against the doorframe, staying out of the apartment. “I just couldn’t imagine Waltz doing that. He wasn’t the sort of guy to get depressed. He was a fighter. He never gave up. Once I heard the news, I knew it was suspicious. I talked to a guy in my law firm, and he recommended your names. I’d like you to look around. Talk to people. See if there’s anything that might show that he didn’t do this himself. Whatever you need, you tell me. If you need more cash, let me know. I guess it’s… well, maybe I just don’t want to believe that he could’ve done it, but something doesn’t feel right to me.”
“High profile life. No wife. No kids. Seventy-five-hour weeks in the office.” I said as I stepped towards the door. “That’s got to take a toll on a person.”
“I don’t see him doing this to himself.” He shook his head. “Not Waltz.”
“Did he have any enemies?” Casey asked.
“We all do. That’s part of the job of being a criminal defense attorney. Some of our actions are going to make some people unhappy. We can’t avoid that.” He drew a breath and ran his hand over his hair. “He was working on a sexual assault case. It was getting a bit of coverage in the media, but that was nothing that he couldn’t handle. Jonathon DiMarco was on his case all the time.”
“Jonathon DiMarco? The media guy?” Casey asked.
“That’s him. Former police captain and now pain in every defense attorney’s rear. He hates us with a passion. If there’s a story to be drummed up about the failings of the justice system, you can bet that DiMarco is behind it. He has a thirst for revamping the criminal justice system. Always on television, yelling about how bad a job defense lawyers do.” Daley unlocked the apartment door and swung it open. “Waltz was a tough guy. And he wasn’t just a colleague; he was a friend of mine. And now… he’s gone.” Daley stayed by the door. “It’s two days since he shot himself, but the smell is still there. I’ve got the air-conditioner and fans going, but it’s not making a difference. I can’t go back in there. Once was enough for me.”
Daley stepped aside, allowing us to enter the apartment.
And there was the smell, hitting us like a heavy wall of thick and humid air. I recognized it the second I stepped into the room, and I had to stop myself from gagging.
“Wow,” Casey whispered. “What a mess. Looks like he bled out.”
As Daley closed the door behind us, I took a deep breath and stood still, surveying the scene. The blood was still there—a massive splatter against the white wall, and a large, dried pool on the grey carpet. The open plan living room and entertaining area were once spotless and clean, everything soulless and sterile, but now, the blandness only served as a contrast to the horror. I treaded carefully into the room, choosing my footing in between the stains on the carpet.
There was the futility of it all that sat in the pit of my stomach—no matter who you were and the life you’d lived, no matter how you’d spent your money, wealth or time, death removed it all; years of love, regret and wasted moments, poor decisions, happiness and heart break swept clean, leaving nothing more than a body laid bare for the world to judge.
Casey placed the police file on the kitchen counter and began flicking through the pages.
“Who found the body?” I called out to her as I stared at the place where Anthony Waltz lost his life.
“The security guard.” Casey read from the report. “Robbie McAdams. Apparently, two gunshots were reported during the night before, and Robbie came up to investigate it. What’s the bet we have another security guard with a hero complex? He’s going to be way too helpful and eager.”
“What did he find?” I asked as I surveyed the bookshelf.
“Waltz was found with a giant hole in his neck… Excuse me for a moment,” Casey said, swallowing hard, and holding up her fist to cover her mouth. She glanced over the photos of Waltz’s dead body. “The bullet left quite the hole in his neck.”
I nodded. It was a lot to take in and poor Casey looked like she was going to be sick. She closed the police file, took a moment to calm down, and then came back into the living room.
“Casey.” I called out as I stared at the bookshelf. “Here’s the second bullet hole.”
She walked over and studied the hole in the wall. “Why would he fire one shot into the bookshelf before he turned the gun on himself? Was he testing if the gun worked?”
“Maybe.” My mind was racing at a hundred miles an hour. “If this was a suicide, then the second bullet means nothing, but if this is a murder investigation, then the second bullet becomes a factor.”
“He was trying to shoot the attacker?”
“Possibly, but there’s an old trick the mob used. A hitman would shoot the target while wearing gloves, then once the target is dead, they place the target’s hand around the gun, and fire the gun into another area. The second shot leaves gun residue on the deceased’s hand, and makes it look like he pulled the trigger. And if we look at the angle…” I studied the hole in the wall and pointed to where the dead body once laid. “Yep. It lines up. If Waltz had enemies, then there’s suspicion.”
Casey moved to the bookshelf and began to scan the framed photos, the only piece of personality we’d seen in the penthouse so far. She picked up one of the large, framed photographs. “Hey, Jack, who am I looking at? This photo here, with Anthony Waltz and the fish.”
I leaned over her shoulder and took a quick glance.
“Jeffery Stone. Another big shot attorney. Face used to be all over the papers because of his high-profile clients. Similar to our Mr. Waltz. It’s no surprise they’d go fishing together. They must get around in the same circles.”
Casey squinted her eyes and considered the name, rolling it around in her mind. “Yeah but… there’s something else. This guy died last year.”
I paused for a moment, a thought tracking through my head. “That’s right, he did,” I replied. “All over the news. It was reported that it was too much for him. He shot himself…”
“In the neck.” Casey finished my sentence. “In exactly the same way.”
Chapter 2
The charm of the third largest city in the country attracted all sorts of characters from other areas, including Anthony Waltz. From our preliminary research, we’d found that Waltz had arrived from Idaho twenty-five years earlier and by the looks of it, he’d worked just about every one of the days since. Some people liked to spend their lives surrounded by family, others surrounded by memories, and others liked to have nothing at all. For Anthony Waltz, being surrounded by expensive possessions was clearly his passion. He owned two penthouse apartments, two sports cars, and numerous pieces of ridiculously expensive artwork. He also had quite the collection of Patek Philippe watches, Armani suits, and Salvatore Ferragamo shoes. Just one of those watches would be worth more than the average annual salary.
Casey and I spent an hour in Anthony Waltz’s apartment, taking breaks to step into the hallway when the smell of death became too much. Touches of a life outside of work were minimal—a few photos, only a handful of books, and one jigsaw puzzle box. There wasn’t a diary, a notebook, or even a complete photo album. Apart from the blood stains, there was nothing else out of place.
While we searched, Kenneth Daley went to the coffee shop nearby, waiting for our call, unable to step back into the apartment. Not that I blamed him—the smell was overwhelming. Casey and I took more than a hundred and fifty photos while searching the apartment, and we went through most of Waltz’s belongings, filling our minds with questions. When we were through, we called Daley, and he met us back in the hallway.
“The man who found the body, is he working now?” I asked as I shut the apartment door behind us.
“He’s downstairs in the security room. He works the night shift,” Daley looked at his watch. “So, he still should be working for the next hour or so.”
“We’d like to ask him a number of questions about what he found that morning.” Casey added.
Daley agreed and led us to the elev
ator.
“He was a good man,” Daley said without conviction. Once inside the spacious elevator, he leaned against the back wall, shaking his head, clearly not sure he believed what he said. “That’s what you should say when someone is dead, isn’t it? The old adage that you shouldn’t speak ill of the deceased. But the truth is… I don’t know if he was a good man. He helped people defeat the system. Changed lives. Got felons out of prison. But he did all that for power, money, and status. He didn’t care about his clients. He only pretended to care until they paid him.”
That wasn’t my idea of a good man, and I wasn’t sure that Daley was convinced either.
“What are your first thoughts?” Daley asked when we didn’t respond. “Is there anything there at all that might indicate that he didn’t kill himself? Anything at all?”
“There are things we can look into.” I replied, keeping my cards close to my chest. “And there’s something that we need to follow up on. It’s not as clean-cut as the police report would have you believe.”
“Is there anything else that you can tell us that might help our investigation?” Casey pressed. “Perhaps someone else had a key to his apartment, perhaps a close friend, or he was dating someone?”
“Waltz didn’t have many friends, and he never dated. He preferred to pay for company.” Daley said as the elevator doors opened. “He said that if he paid them, then they had to do as he pleased. He liked it that way. Got the girls to do some really weird stuff too. After he had a few drinks, he’d often talk about all the kinky things he did. And some of the things he did made my skin crawl. In the end, nothing shocked me about that man. He did some very strange things to the girls he paid.”
Definitely not my idea of a good man.
The Shooter Page 1
