Stolen Lives: A Detective Mystery Series SuperBoxset

by James Hunt

  At first she didn’t recognize him. The chaos of her entrance had not allowed her mind the time to process anyone’s face. But in the light of the fire from the burning cash, she saw him perfectly clearly. “You picked the wrong side, Hall.” Unsure of why, she felt her arm aim the pistol at his head, her finger pressing against the curve of the trigger. “Does Diaz know about this?”

  Detective Hall coughed up blood, choking and laughing to himself. “Yeah. He knows. He keeps telling me it’ll get me killed. I guess the fucking asshole was right.” He narrowed his eyes, squinting up at her, the last bits of life drifting away. “Unlike you, he didn’t give me up to anyone. He was my partner and he stayed my partner. No matter what. They have a special place in hell for people like you.” He spat a wad of blood at her feet, and the last bit of strength in his neck disappeared as his head smacked against the pavement.

  The whisper in the back of Cooper’s mind had grown to a roar. She was an outlaw. Wanted for murder. Her family was gone, her partner had betrayed her, and she was alone. She didn’t have to abide by the laws anymore. She was free. She could offer her own brand of justice.

  “You don’t even have the balls to do it, do you?” Hall spit up more blood. “I’m already dead, Cooper. Go on. Finish the j—”

  Smoke drifted from the tip of the revolver, and the bang of the gunshot lingered in Cooper’s ears. The bullet sliced right through his head, freezing the features of his face to the last breath of life he drew. Cooper tucked the revolver into her waistband and left Hall’s corpse to rot until morning or until the cops arrived.

  Ash from the burning bills drifted from the sky and fell softly on Cooper’s shoulders, slowly covering her in a haze of grey. There were no longer any blurred lines. She saw everything clearly and understood what it would take, what she would have to become. The scales of justice had been torn down, and in their place she would erect the guillotine.

  Chapter 8

  The motel room was old. The carpet reeked of a musty smell that permeated the walls, the towels in the bathroom, and the sheets on the bed. Stains from god knows what covered the floor like the misshapen spots of a cow, and the wallpaper bubbled over the walls. It was a dump. But a dump that didn’t ask any questions and didn’t mind accepting cash without verification of identity.

  Beneath a cluster of empty water bottles and discarded chip bags that Cooper had purchased with what was left of McKaffee’s cash was a map of the city with five locations circled in black marker. Four of them had been crossed out. Six bullets were stacked on the table, and the chamber of the empty revolver spun, the mechanical click of the device revving in speed with every flick of her thumb, then slowly losing momentum before another flick sent it spinning. But the rhythmic cadence of the revolver chamber waned in and out between the sounds of the television in the hotel room as the news stations reported Cooper’s antics from the night before.

  “Bound, gagged, and beaten, employees at a local convenience store in south Baltimore say a woman, who was later identified as former Baltimore Police Detective Adila Cooper, went on a rampage through the store but didn’t take any money.” The news anchor turned to another camera, a second picture plastered on the screen of the bar she’d attacked. “And it seems that one rampage wasn’t enough. It wasn’t but minutes later that Mrs. Cooper traveled a few more blocks in the area and set her sights on a small bar, where one man was found dead in the alleyway with several more injured. This raises Mrs. Cooper’s criminal status to a double homicide after the shooting of Baltimore Police Captain Jonathan Farnes, a thirty-year veteran with the force and brother of the former governor of Maryland. If you have any—”

  Cooper clicked off the television and set the revolver down on the small round table next to the red-and-beige striped chair. They didn’t mention the money. She wasn’t an accountant, but the amount of cash she had torched last night had to have been upwards of a few million. Quentin Farnes must have had a crew come in and clean it up before the actual police arrived. But considering how far Quentin’s reach stretched, it could have been cleaned up when Baltimore PD arrived. “What do you think?”

  McKaffee was handcuffed to one of the iron pipes in the bathroom, of which she kept the door open to keep an eye on him at all times. His mouth was still duct taped, and he mumbled wordless nonsense, his face reddening from the effort.

  Cooper snapped the revolver shut a final time and set it down next to the ammunition. She closed her eyes, feeling the weight of the sleeplessness in her eyelids, hearing the sound of the revolver’s gunshot. Bang. Bang. Bang. Over and over again in her mind. She’d taken a man’s life outside of the law. But there’s still one more to take.

  By now Quentin Farnes was scouring the city, calling in every dirty cop and former official to track her down. Cooper sat on the edge of the bed, close to the nightstand, where a yellowed phone from the eighties rested next to a lamp from the same era. She lifted the receiver and dialed McKaffee’s phone, which she’d given to one of the workers at the convenience store.

  The phone rang three times before a brusque voice answered. “Hello?”

  “Put your boss on the phone.” The noise of the cell phone being passed between hands traveled in Cooper’s ear, followed by a steady, heavy breathing.

  “You have my attention.” The voice was aged, but the sharp tongue of the seasoned politician had yet to lose its gravitas. “You’ll soon learn that it’s not something you want.”

  “I’m impressed you managed to clean up the money sites so quickly,” Cooper said, leaning forward and resting her forearms on her legs. “Or did you have your hands in the pockets of the local media outlets too?”

  “What do you want, Detective?”

  Cooper pushed herself off the bed, traveling as far as the coiled cord would allow her then retracing her steps back to the nightstand. “To meet. Face to face.”

  “Why?” Genuine curiosity filled his tone, and he drawled the words out. “I didn’t have anything to do with the death of that sister of yours.”

  “My sister’s death showed me how little the law cares for justice. You slipped through my fingers three years ago after Danny’s trial, but I’m not going to let that happen again.” She recited the prepared response just like she’d rehearsed. Though after the amount of his cash she’d torched, she was guessing she could have given any reason and he’d still believe her.

  “You know there isn’t anything you can gain from all of this. The moment I see you, I’ll kill you. And it’s not like you can call the police.” He chuckled to himself. “You’ve backed yourself into a corner, Detective. How do you expect to escape all of this alive? Or do you not care about that worthless life of yours anymore?”

  “This evening. 7 p.m. 26 Mulberry Road. If you really want me dead as much as I think you do, then you’ll show. But I don’t come out until I see your face.”

  “And if I don’t show?”

  Cooper inched the end of the receiver closer to her mouth. “Then there’s still more money for me to burn.” She slammed the phone down then walked back over to the table and the map. She brushed the littered garbage off and examined the only circled location that she hadn’t crossed out. It was the best she could do with what she remembered from the meeting she’d walked in on with Hemsworth and his agents. It was one of the locations he had his team monitoring to look for the killer, and it was the perfect spot for Cooper and Quentin Farnes to meet. The moment the FBI saw him meeting with her, they’d know something was wrong. The only problem was making sure she could escape the FBI’s wrath before she was arrested as well.

  But she’d given herself a chance with the location. The neighborhood was worn down, with hundreds of abandoned houses with too many exits to cover for the number of agents Hemsworth would have on hand. When the shit hit the fan, she’d have plenty of options to make a run for it, and then all that was left was to wait for the killer to meet up with her.

  Tired groans muffled by the duct tape on McKaf
fee’s mouth begged for attention, and Cooper set the map on the bed and entered the makeshift jail cell that was the bathroom. When she entered, McKaffee motioned with this head to the toilet, and Cooper reached for the keys to the handcuffs. “I swear you have a bladder the size of a pea.”

  Once McKaffee had relieved himself, Cooper returned her attention to the map, marking the different escape routes and which roads she knew would allow her the quickest getaway. Once she’d memorized her options Cooper dropped the marker and rubbed her eyes.

  When her vision cleared, Cooper glanced down at her pant leg and noticed the dried blood spatter from the final shot that killed Hall. She stared at it for a moment. It was the symbol of her freedom and the chains that bound her to a fate she couldn’t escape.

  With the strategy mapped out, all that was left now was the execution. Cooper moved from the chair and table to the bed, feeling the weight of the day sink her into the mattress and the sandpaper-like blankets that covered it. She closed her eyes, hoping to catch a few moments of rest, but was denied the reprieve.

  Restless, she shifted to the edge of the bed, her shoes planted firmly on the floor. She ran her fingers back through her hair, feeling the grime and filth that had been collected. She’d wanted to shower, but she didn’t trust McKaffee in such a small space as the bathroom, and she didn’t want to risk moving him again.

  The quiet of the motel was deafening, and Cooper felt the stir of restlessness. She paced the floor quickly, back and forth on the narrow strip of carpet that ran from the door to the bathroom, trying to dispel the nervous energy, but couldn’t rid herself of it no matter how much she walked.

  Cooper looked back to the phone, fighting the urge to call, fighting the weakness that plagued her veins. If Beth was still alive, I could talk to her. But if Beth was alive, then she wouldn’t be in this mess to begin with.

  All of her twenty-one-year career had been dedicated toward the mission of enforcing justice in a world that was built around the law. She’d done everything by the book. She’d followed the code of law enforcement to the extreme, and never once did she sacrifice the law for what would have been easy, or what she wanted. Cooper glanced at the revolver on the desk, along with the maps and the ammunition and the weapons she’d confiscated from Quentin’s men. She knew that she was no longer seeking justice. She was only seeking to slake her thirst for revenge. But where does it end?

  The small red light on the old phone blinked in time with its ringing, and Cooper stared at it, not picking it up until after the third ring.

  “You have a message for you at the front desk,” the clerk said.

  Cooper slammed the phone down without answering and sprinted out of the room and down the walkway to the staircase, quickly descending the steps. Her eyes scanned the horizon, the traffic, looking for the pair of beady eyes that she knew was close. There wasn’t anyone else that would have been able to find her, and there wasn’t anyone else that would have left a note.

  Cooper flung open the front doors to the small motel lobby that wouldn’t have passed any kind of inspection and found the old woman who had checked her in watching television with her feet propped up on the desk, not even noticing Cooper’s entrance. “Where is it?”

  The woman lifted a piece of paper between her fingers and extended it to Cooper without ever taking her eyes off the television screen. The note was folded several times, but even through the thick padding, Cooper saw the familiar red crayon.

  Dear Detective,

  You’re nearing the end now. And because you’re so close I thought it would be beneficial to reflect on your past. All of the moments that made you who you were, the memories that constructed you into the person you’ve become, the person I’ve grown to admire.

  So come with me and let me tell your story through my eyes. When you’re finished with Quentin Farnes go to 576 Westworth Way. It’s time to take a trip down memory lane.

  See you soon.

  Cooper remained frozen, staring at the note clutched tight between her fingers as the sounds of the soap opera on the television filled the lobby. She reread the address on the note a few more times, making sure it was what she thought it would be. There were a lot of different ways he could have learned about that address, but there was only one that made sense. Beth told him. She crumpled the paper in her hands at the thought of that madman forcing her sister to talk, making her tell him stories. Keeping the paper in her hands, she returned to her room and packed up everything she needed, knowing that she wouldn’t return.

  Once the supplies had been gathered, she stepped into the bathroom. McKaffee was covered in sweat, and his eyes were only half open. No doubt he was exhausted, hungry, and dehydrated. Cooper knelt and ripped the tape off his mouth. He shuddered but made no noise.

  “Just do it already,” McKaffee said, his face covered in tears that were just as pathetic as his request. “I’m already a dead man. It’s only a matter of time before Quentin finds out who gave up the locations.” Snot ran from his nose as the self-pity continued. “Just fucking kill me.”

  Cooper removed the blade from its sheath at her belt and held the tip under McKaffee’s chin. She could do it. It was no different than pulling the trigger in the alleyway. She applied the slightest pressure, drawing blood, but stopped. “I’m not going to kill you. That would make it too easy for you.” She grabbed hold of his wrists, lowered the knife, then reached for the handcuff keys.

  Once free, McKaffee remained on the floor, rubbing the bruises left behind from his restraints. He looked up at her, the crocodile tears still flowing from his eyes. “W-what are you going to do to me?”

  Cooper wiped the blood-stained tip of the knife with the towel, smearing the red blotch onto the dirty white of the cloth. “You’re going to live. And if you want any chance at trying to get a pardon for the things you’ve done after Quentin is behind bars, then I suggest you tell the authorities everything that happened.”

  The fat along McKaffee’s neck wiggled, and he scrunched his face in disbelief, the tears following the lines twisted along his cheeks. “You want me to tell them what you did?”

  “All of it.” Cooper sheathed the knife and adjusted the strap of the bag on her shoulder. “Tell them what I did. It’ll only help the case against Quentin. And if you need more incentive, then know that it’ll save your skin too. I forced you into taking me to those locations. I beat you. I tied you up. Tell them the truth, McKaffee. Let the law protect you.”

  Cooper left McKaffee alone and crying on the floor of the bathroom. He might listen to her, or he might not. It made no difference in the end. The real evidence rested on her shoulders and making sure the FBI saw her and Quentin together. Then, when the bullets started flying, it wouldn’t matter how many lawyers the bastard had. He wouldn’t be able to fend off the resources of the federal government. But she knew that once she headed down that road there was no redemption, no second chance for her to tell her side of the story. But she knew someone who might be able to help her voice be heard.

  Chapter 9

  With McKaffee’s vehicle no doubt being sought by the authorities, Cooper used the buses to get around. It was easy to blend in; all she had to do was keep her head down, don the ear buds that ran into her jacket and connected to no phone or music, and rest her head against the window.

  From the windows of public transportation, Cooper watched the people in the cars that passed. Some looked angry, others sad, some tired, but all of them shared the same theme of being absorbed in their little worlds.

  Cooper looked at the backs of the heads she saw on the bus, each of them sharing the same vanity as the rest. It was almost laughable. Her face had been plastered on every television screen and newspaper in the city, and even with all of that, she could still get lost in the shuffle of the crowd.

  The brakes squealed to a stop, and Cooper stepped off the bus and looked up to the massive Channel 4 News logo plastered at the top of the twelve-story building. She pulled her bal
l cap lower, making sure her hair was tucked neatly into the back of the hat, and flipped the collar of her shirt up. She circled the building’s perimeter, ignoring most of the faces that came in and out of the area, focused on finding only one in particular.

  “All right, Stacy, I’ll see you tomorrow!” Janet Kimmings waved to one of her coworkers, her high heels clacking against the pavement as she walked steadily toward the row of news vans parked in the back. Cooper tailed her for a few blocks, searching for a moment where there wasn’t a crowd.

  Finally, the reporter stopped outside a closed flower shop to check her phone, and with her back to Cooper, it was the perfect moment. Cooper crept up behind her and slowly reached for the revolver, concealing it under the long sleeves of her shirt, and pressed it against Kimmings’s back. “Don’t scream. Don’t call attention to yourself. I’m not going to hurt you. I just want to talk.”

  Kimmings froze, the only evidence of her fear the light tremble of the back of her neck. “I don’t suppose this will be on the record?”

  Cooper removed the pistol from the reporter’s back and spun her around. “I’d get out your tape recorder, Mrs. Kimmings.”

  Kimmings’s face transformed from fear to shock. “Detective Cooper?” She whipped her head from side to side then pulled Cooper by the arm until they were under the flower shop’s awning. “What the hell did you do? We’ve been covering your story nonstop for the past twenty-four hours. I can’t—” She lowered her head, taking a breath. “If you go on the record, then whatever you tell me will be used at your trial. It’ll all be fair game. And I’ll want to know everything.”

  “I know.” Cooper had weighed the options, but in the end only one thing mattered. “I want to make sure my version survives. No matter what. But once you tell this story, there’ll be just as many people coming after you, and with a lot worse than this.” She gestured to the pistol under her long sleeve then tucked it away.