While waiting for the light to change at Fifth and Howard, Sam tried to focus on work. He was going to have to play catch up after missing yesterday and McNary would no doubt have some special assignment lined up for him the moment he arrived at the office. Probably another—
Sam did a double-take. A late model Nissan sedan had just turned the corner and drove past him in the other direction. The man behind the wheel was Stanley Jenkins!
He looked in his rear view mirror and watched the car disappear around a curve in the road. There was another car waiting at the light behind Sam, preventing him from backing up and turning the Jeep around. He floored it, shot through the red light, made a sharp U-turn, sped through the red light again and accelerated in pursuit.
He rounded the curve just in time to see the Nissan turning on to Grand Avenue. Sam sped up to sixty, praying that none of Smithtown’s finest were in the area looking for speeders. When he turned on to Grand, the Nissan was still in sight, traveling leisurely near the speed limit of thirty-five.
His heart nearly leaping out of his chest, Sam maintained his speed until he was only four or five car lengths behind the Nissan before slowing down. The last thing he needed was for Jenkins to realize he was being tailed.
The Nissan approached the intersection of Route 52 just before the light turned red and came to a stop. Sam slowed down to a crawl. He wanted to follow Jenkins, not encounter him—at least not yet. He hoped to find out where the murderer was staying so Hagstrom and his men could apprehend him. Roger was going to shit a brick.
The light switched to green. Sam was only two car lengths behind Jenkins. Removing his iPhone from his pocket, Sam clicked the voice memo icon and dictated the Nissan’s license plate. As soon as Sam turned the corner, Jenkins suddenly floored it and sped off like a bat out of hell. He must have realized he was being followed. Sam tried to catch up but a car suddenly pulled out in front of him, forcing him to brake hard to avoid a collision. Swearing under his breath, he swerved around the idiot and floored it again. He could just make out the Nissan in the distance as it tore up the highway.
Speeding in hot pursuit, Sam felt a mixture of victory and contempt. Knowing that Stanley Jenkins was in town confirmed what he had thought all along—the bastard had indeed stolen Hannah’s tricycle. As he approached the bridge crossing the river to the west side of town, Sam no longer could see the Nissan. But when he came out on the other side he could see it in the distance, doing well over the speed limit.
The west side of Smithtown was comprised primarily of farmland and the state forest. Since Jenkins was headed in the direction of the main road leading to the forest, Sam’s hunch was that the killer would pull on to one of the many dirt roads scattered throughout the forest before he could catch up, making it virtually impossible to find him.
As if on cue, Sam saw the Nissan turn right on to the forest access road. Sam was nearly a mile behind him so he took the Jeep up to ninety in an attempt to reach the road before Jenkins was out of sight. But just as he feared, when he turned on to the road he saw nothing but the oncoming traffic.
“Fuck it!” he swore, feeling his frustration mounting. By the time he had rounded a wide curve in the road, he was certain that Jenkins had already pulled on to one of the several access roads leading into the natural wonders of the forest proper.
He wanted to continue his search but knew it was futile. And besides that, he was already late for work. He pulled on to the first road he came to, turned the Jeep around and headed back toward town. Pressing the dashboard on-screen call button, he commanded the phone to call Roger Hagstrom’s personal line at the Smithtown PD.
“Detective Hagstrom.” His voice sounded through the Jeep’s speakers.
“Stanley’s in town,” Sam declared.
“You’re shittin’ me.”
“Nope, I just got done chasing the bastard all the way out to the west side before he finally lost me. He’s really here, Roger!”
“I think your eyes are playing tricks on you,” Roger said.
“It was Jenkins—I’m sure of it! He was driving a late model gray Nissan. I managed to copy down his license plate. You gotta trace it, Rog. I’ll bet you dollars to donuts that car was stolen. And Stanley is the one who stole it.”
“All I can say is don’t get your hopes up too much, buddy. Give me the number.”
Sam played back his voice memo.
“Did you get it?”
“Yeah, I got it. So let’s say this car really was stolen and Stanley was the person driving it. He’s probably already on his way to the next county. If he’s smart, he’ll ditch the Nissan and steal something else. Or lay low somewhere. What I’m saying is that he’s not going to be easy to find.”
“I don’t care, at least we have a lead. And if this doesn’t prove he killed Ann, I don’t know what does.”
“How’s that?”
“Why the hell else would he be in town, Roger? I mean, it’s been two years since he escaped prison and like you said, he probably left the country. But all of a sudden he’s back in Smithtown again. I think he killed Ann and now he’s going after Amy and Hannah.”
“That sounds pretty lame, Sam—sorry to bust your bubble. Listen to what you’re expecting me to swallow. That Stanley Jenkins escaped prison two years ago, went on the lam for a year—most likely to another country—then decided to come back to Smithtown to murder Ann. Then he went on the lam again for nearly another year and now he’s returned yet again to resume his mission of madness—to murder the rest of your family. Does that sound like it makes any sense—seriously?”
“First of all, I never said he left Smithtown after he killed my wife. Maybe he’s been here all along, lying low somewhere. It’s possible, and you know it. Now that all this time has gone by and everything’s cooled down, he’s decided it’s safe enough to move forward with his plans.”
“That sounds even more ridiculous! I know Stanley is slippery but he’s not slippery enough to have avoided being recognized in Smithtown after all this time. This isn’t exactly New York City, you know. Everybody in town knows what he looks like and it’s not the kind of place you can just get lost in. Furthermore, why would he take that kind of risk for this long before striking again? We’re talking about Stanley Jenkins here, the guy that works meticulously, effectively and furiously. Definitely not his modus operandi.”
“Whatever—I’m not going to argue with you about this again. Please just trace that plate and tell me what you find. Okay?”
“I’ll get on it right away. Hey, aren’t you supposed to be back at work today?”
“Yeah, I’m already later than hell.”
“Your boss is going to burn you a new one.”
“Screw him. This seemed a little more important than being at work on time.”
“Good luck trying to convince McNary of that. Anyway, I’ll let you know what I find out on that plate.”
“Thanks, Rog.”
As he hung up, Sam tried to imagine exactly what Jenkins might be up to. Despite his detective friend’s reluctance to accept Jenkins’ involvement in Ann’s death, Sam refused to underestimate the killer’s abilities. Here was a man who had been so obsessed with Sam’s wife since high school that he had spent years devising a diabolical plan just to win her heart. A plan that included Jenkins’ total transformation from a nerdy geek to a handsome prince in white armor—the charming Jerry Rankin. Anybody who would go to that length just to “get a girl” was capable of trying anything.
Sam pulled into the parking lot and headed for the main door of the Smithtown Observer. He couldn’t believe his eyes when he spotted George McNary standing in the foyer, tapping his wristwatch.
“What’s your excuse this time, Middleton?”
“Rush hour traffic,” Sam replied drily.
“In a town of less than seventeen thousand? Try again.”
“I’m not shitting you, boss. It took me four light changes to get on to Fifth Street. Must be that big
sale going on at Walmart is all I can figure.”
“Screw you, Sam. I need you in my office pronto. Something has come up.”
Sam wondered what earth-shattering event it could be.
“Let me just get a cup of joe and I’ll be there.”
“Hurry the fuck up!”
Sam winked at the receptionist as he watched the old fart storm toward his office. “Yowsah, boss,” he quipped under his breath.
Sam stopped at the Bunn-O-Matic outside his office and warmed up his travel mug before going inside. He slung his coat on the chair and scanned through the pile of papers on his desk before heading to McNary’s office. When he got there, the door was open and McNary was sitting behind his massive mahogany desk wearing his customary scowl.
“Close the door and have a seat.”
Sam complied and sat down. “So what’s up, George?”
“That’s what I’m hoping you can tell me.”
Sam looked on as McNary took out his cell phone and pressed a button. A loud tinny voice suddenly blared out from the tiny speaker. “Yeah, I’ve got a message for Sam Middleton. Tell that prick to back off now or I’m gonna shoot him. I ain’t shittin’ you, either!”
“Who the hell was that?” Sam asked.
“I have no idea. This was left on my voicemail last night after I’d left the office. Any idea what you’ve done to get this guy so worked up?”
“Hell if I know! Whoever it is was obviously wasted. Probably some drunk redneck who’s not particularly crazy about my last article trashing the NRA and its Republican supporters.”
“That possibility actually crossed my mind, Sam,” McNary declared. “Which brings me to why I called you here. I’m taking you off the editorial page. Nothing personal, understand?”
“You are fucking kidding me, right? Just because some right-wing nut job calls and threatens me for speaking my mind about handguns and how they need to be outlawed in this country?”
“Of course not—you know me better than that. It’s just that your views are not always in alignment with our public image at this paper. You know I’ve always felt that showing both sides of a story is good journalism, but not if it starts riling folks up and makes them want to quit reading us. That’s just not good business, Sam.”
Sam laughed. “Bullshit! This paper hasn’t shown both sides of a story since JFK was president! This is just your way of punishing me for not agreeing with your conservative philosophy, isn’t it, boss? C’mon—admit it!”
“Not true, Sam. If that were true, I would never have let you write that column in the first place. And I’ve tolerated it for all these years but now it has to stop. Things have changed. The folks who have financial interests in the Observer are the ones running the show now—the ones who pay our salaries and everything else that goes on here. We just don’t have the freedom we had before Ashford Media took over. I’m afraid we have no choice, Sam. We have to roll with the punches.”
“So that’s what this is all about. A conservative company buys the paper so they now decide what we print and what we suppress. Just like all the other papers are doing. Well, I think it’s pathetic—our readers only get to see one side of the story. What the fuck ever happened to unbiased journalism? Reporting all the facts without prejudice and letting the public decide for themselves how they feel about the state of things?”
“Welcome to America. Sorry, but that’s the way it is and don’t act like you didn’t see this coming. If you want to keep your job, you’re just going to have to accept it and move forward.”
Sam felt like punching McNary in the face right now and actually had to force himself to resist the temptation. The son of a bitch was enjoying all of this. He had been wanting this day to come for years and now he had the backing of his conservative cohorts to see it through. What a farce!
“Correction, George. I don’t have to accept this in order to move forward. All I have to do is quit working at this miserable place to move forward. And that’s just what I’m going to do right this minute. So put that in your fucking pipe and smoke it!”
With that, Sam turned around and stormed out of the room.
“You’re going to regret this, Middleton!”
Sam didn’t stop moving until he was back in his office. He grabbed his jacket, picked up his MacBook and headed for the front door. Along the way he noticed everybody staring at him, their expressions aghast. Was he really going to follow through with this?
You bet your sweet asses, I am!
Sam could feel his heart pounding hard in his chest when he got behind the wheel and fired up the engine. He paused a moment to get his bearings before putting the Jeep into gear and flying out of the parking lot.
As he headed north to his home, Sam had a huge grin on his face. What had just occurred at the Observer was much more than simply a knee-jerk reaction to McNary’s disheartening announcement. It was a defining moment, and a very important one at that. How long had he been longing for this moment to happen? To quit his job at the paper once and for all—to do what he really wanted to do with his life? How long had he put up with the utter bullshit of working for a company that had gone from a conservative hometown paper to yet another extension of some monstrous conservative media group that thrived on spoon-feeding the public its own views in order to further its own agenda?
Much too long. And now, by God he had at last done it!
He felt liberated—the freest he’d felt in a long time. If Ann were still alive, she would not be sharing in his joy, however—not by a long shot. Instead, she would be ordering him to march right back into McNary’s office and tell him that he wasn’t serious about quitting; that he had just been angry for a moment and needed a few minutes to settle down.
But Ann was gone. And as much as he missed her, he had to admit he didn’t miss her sermons on how he needed to be realistic and not make rash, irrational decisions like this. She was probably turning in her grave right this moment, in fact. Sorry, babe. But I need to do what I want to do this time.
His cell phone rang and he glanced at the screen, half-expecting it to be McNary. Instead it was Roger Hagstrom.
“Hey, buddy,” he greeted.
“I traced that tag for you and you were right—it’s a stolen vehicle.”
“I knew it!”
“Belongs to someone who lives in Jackson.”
“And Stanley Jenkins is the one who stole it. So can you put out a BOLO for it?”
“Already have. But before you get all excited, you know as well as I do that just because this Nissan is a stolen vehicle, it doesn’t mean that Stanley is the one driving it. And no matter who the driver might be, he’s probably half the way to the Indiana border by now.”
“Jesus, Rog—I’m not blind! It was Stanley Jenkins driving that damn car—I know it! And you’re going to be chowing down on some humble pie when they catch the bastard.”
“I guess we’ll see about that. Anyway, I’ll keep you posted. I’ve informed the Sheriff and Highway Patrol to be on the lookout for this car since the guy’s already out of our jurisdiction. Hopefully we’ll hear something soon.”
“Appreciate it,” Sam said. “Guess what I just did.”
“What?”
“Quit the paper.”
“You shittin’ me?”
“Nope. McNary deep-sixed my editorial column so I told him I quit. And I want you to know I feel really good about it.”
“You’ll go back,” Roger declared.
“Wanna bet?”
“Twenty bucks you’re back to work before the week’s over.”
“You’re on. Hate to take your money, though.”
“Seriously, buddy. What the hell you gonna do without a job? In this uber- economically challenged hellhole of a place?”
“I’ll be fine. I’m doing pretty well with my writing and I’ve got enough stashed away to carry me for a while.”
“Ann would murder you if she were still alive.”
“I kno
w she would.”
“Well, all I can say is this sounds like cause for a celebration. See you at the Stein when I get off?”
“Sounds like a plan. Call me if you hear about the Nissan.”
“Will do.”
Sam was ecstatic. This day had barely begun and already he had not only freed himself from the paper, he’d just learned that the cops were hot on Jenkins’ tail. Nothing would make him happier right now than seeing that fucking monster nabbed and thrown back in the slammer where he belonged.
Inspired by all of this, he knew exactly what he was going to do when he got home. Write. He would brew a fresh pot of coffee and continue work on that chapter he’d been working on for the past week.
Chapter 9
Stanley recalled the last time he’d been in New York as he exited the Lincoln Tunnel. It had been nearly ten years to the day, he realized. He had just returned to the States after an extended stay in Europe. And as freaky as it was, he was about to embark on a very similar venture as soon as he got his passport.
Funny how history repeats itself.
Or might repeat itself, he thought. Although Max Bernstein had come through and found somebody to make him a passport, the counterfeiter was out of town and wouldn’t be back in the city until the following week. That meant that either Max would have to find somebody else who could do the job sooner, or Stanley would have to wait it out and pray he wasn’t caught in the meantime. He felt fairly confident he could lay low for a week in New York City but there was always the off-chance that something could screw things up. What he really needed to do was blow the country ASAP, but he was resigned to the reality that it might not be in the cards.
While waiting at a red light, he observed the pedestrians crossing the street. Among them were several foxy women he would give his right nut to pick up and screw right now. As much as he’d enjoyed whacking off to the porn channel he’d watched the night before at the motel, nothing matched the real thing. He had been a freaking monk for eight years and was hornier than a toad. He needed some real pussy real soon.
The May Day Murders Sequel Page 7
