by J. R. McLeay
Unlucky Day
A Crime Thriller
J. R. McLeay
Kindle Press
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
No part of this work may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission of the publisher.
Published by Kindle Press, Seattle, 2017
Amazon, the Amazon logo, Kindle Scout, and Kindle Press are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.
Cover design by BookCoverMall
Contents
Other books by J. R. McLeay:
I. A Dangerous Game
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
II. Raising the Ante
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
III. All In
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Epilogue
About the Author
Other books by J. R. McLeay:
Chapter 1
Acknowledgments
Other books by J. R. McLeay:
Remember when you said you never wanted to grow up?
To Tricia,
who makes me feel lucky every day
Part I
A Dangerous Game
1
Times Square, New York City
July 4, 11:45 a.m.
Whose life will I extinguish today?
So many choices, so many worthy subjects. It's the Fourth of July in the epicenter of New York. The anthill is swarming with activity. Such easy pickings.
People are oblivious about their vulnerability as they travel about their everyday business. So lost in their little world with their self-important tasks, they can't imagine at this very moment someone could be drawing a bead on them. Mere seconds away from sudden death with the simple pull of a trigger.
There's a busy mix of tourists and native New Yorkers milling about Times Square today. It's easy to tell them apart. The natives are so impatient to get from point A to B, everybody trying to get ahead in the most competitive city on Earth. The tourists stroll about in lazy clumps, soaking up the flash and glitter of the theater district. The locals periodically try to wedge their way through the horde or walk onto the street to bypass the gawkers.
It's quite amusing, in an anthropological kind of way, to observe the different castes in action.
Every colony harbors insects worthy of extermination. Scanning the faces of these creatures, likely candidates abound. Like the well-to-do tourists, carrying their overstuffed Tiffany and Cartier shopping bags. What a waste of resources. One of those fancy diamond rings could feed a hungry child for a year.
Or the fat-cat investment banker, dressed in his bespoke suit and five hundred dollar shoes. How many mortgage-backed securities has he dumped on the market today? Building an ever-taller house of cards, poised to topple the economy and over-indebted homeowners at any moment.
Then there’s the muscular guy wearing a wifebeater shirt. How many skinny kids did he torment on the playground growing up?
So many people who deserve to die.
Power is not only bestowed by genetics or social class. It can be wielded by anyone with sufficient motivation and will.
But I'm in no hurry to take my quarry today. I've still got a few minutes before the appointed hour. It’s six minutes before noon.
My rifle scope focuses on a crowd milling about the entrance to the Hard Rock Cafe between 43rd and 44th Street. A young pregnant woman barely out of her teens is pausing to light a cigarette. She’s not wearing a wedding ring. Yet another unplanned pregnancy by a promiscuous tramp. Will she too abandon her baby, only to have the child bounce from one abusive foster home to another?
So many thoughtless people in this world. My finger presses more firmly against the trigger.
I follow the tramp as she elbows her way through the throng northward along 7th Avenue toward Broadway. She's giving no apparent thought to the dependent child within her. Bouncing between one distracted pedestrian and another, she pinballs through the crowd, toxic smoke blowing from her lips.
Doesn't she know the prenatal months are the most critical in a developing child's life? My anger builds as I trace her harried journey.
There are no longer any other persons of interest in my field of vision. I'm incensed. If I kill her now, at least the paramedics will arrive soon and have a chance at saving the baby. Child Services will put the baby up for adoption, and the circumstances of its delivery may find a sympathetic and caring family.
This tart isn't fit to be a mother. There’s more than one way to separate an abusive parent from her offspring.
This is the child's lucky day.
The traffic light turns red at 45th Street, and the woman stops at the edge of the curb, directly facing me. I see her clearly in her red halter, a bullseye in the sea of vanilla pedestrians surrounding her.
She's waiting impatiently for the light to turn. This will be her last vision before the white light takes her somewhere else.
I glance at my phone propped on the window ledge beside my rifle. The time is just past noon. I squeeze the trigger and feel the recoil of the weapon against my shoulder.
Exactly two seconds later, pandemonium erupts at the corner of 45th and Broadway.
2
45th & Broadway
July 4, 12:30 p.m.
Joe Bannon flashed his NYPD detective badge to the on-duty cop as he ducked under the yellow tape surrounding the crime scene. Accompanied by his partner Hannah Trimble, he sidestepped a large puddle of blood trickling over the curb onto the street. After twenty-two years as a detective, there wasn't much he hadn't witnessed. Still, seeing the close-up effects of violent crime always struck a personal chord, and he swallowed hard to keep his lunch down.
“Where's the body?” he asked the attending cop.
“They took
it to Lenox Hill Hospital on the East Side. Young pregnant girl. EMS thought the baby might still be saved.”
Joe studied the chalk body outline on the sidewalk.
“Head shot?”
“Blew out half her brains. You're lucky you missed it.”
“Did you see the wound before they took her away?”
“Yeah. She was shot directly between the eyes. The back of her skull was blown almost clean off. Must have been a hollow-point bullet, judging by the extent of the damage.”
“Has forensics swept for the slug?”
“Apparently the bullet hit a man standing behind her in the shoulder. No exit wound. You should be able to collect it at the hospital.”
Joe peered at the gawking bystanders.
“Any witnesses?”
The cop pointed behind him toward the lobby of the Marriott Marquis Hotel.
“Those folks said they were pretty close to the action. Watch where you step though. More than one person lost it when they saw the mess on the sidewalk.”
Joe and Hannah walked up to a group of ashen-faced civilians sitting on the hotel lobby steps. A young woman wept while consoled by her husband. Her blond hair and white dress were splattered with blood.
“Excuse me,” Joe said. “I’m Detective Joe Bannon with the NYPD. Did anyone here see the shooting?”
The bloodstained woman looked up.
“I was standing just behind and to the side of the victim. It was horrible. Who would do this? She was just a young girl. And pregnant!”
The woman buried her head in her partner's arms and sobbed.
“She fell backward after being shot,” her husband continued. “I think a man behind her was also struck. They took away two bodies on stretchers.”
“How many shots did you hear?” Joe asked. “Were you able to tell from which direction they came?”
“I only heard one shot,” the man said.
He pointed up 7th Avenue.
“It wasn’t very loud. It came from uptown, quite a few blocks away. I was on the phone at the time, so I wasn't paying much attention.”
Joe looked at Hannah.
“How long did you stay on the phone after the victim was shot?” he asked the woman’s husband.
“Only a few seconds. I hung up and called 9-1-1 immediately.”
“Can you check to see what time the call ended? This might help pinpoint the time of the shooting.”
The man retrieved his phone from his pocket and tapped the screen a few times.
“Looks like it was right around noon,” he said, turning the phone for Joe to see.
Joe pulled out his notepad and scribbled the start time and duration of the call shown on the screen.
“Did you record the call?”
He knew it was a long shot, but an audio recording could provide clues to the type of gun and firing distance.
The man looked at Joe blankly.
“Um, no. I don't think mobile calls are recorded, are they? I just use the regular features...”
“That's okay, thanks for your help. Can I get your name and contact information if we have any further questions?”
The witnesses gave Joe their particulars, and he jotted them in his notepad.
“What do you make of all this, Han?" Joe asked his partner, as he turned and walked back toward the chalk outline.
“Based on the distance of the gunshot and the degree of street congestion at the time, I'd say it was from a high-powered rifle at an elevated position. Do you think it's another terrorist attack?”
Joe took a moment to appraise the crime scene. A stream of passersby stopped to crane their necks over the crowd of onlookers at the edge of the police line before moving on.
“It's too clean for someone trying to attract attention to a cause. Terrorists try to create maximum carnage with their attacks. Why not plant a bomb or spray more shots if you're trying to make a political statement? This has the feel of a lone wolf. The shot between the eyes from a long distance—that takes special skill. Plus, I think there's a reason why he chose a young pregnant woman. We'll see if the coroner can make any more sense of this.”
“Maybe the victim's next of kin can reveal a motive.”
Joe peered up 7th Avenue toward Central Park.
“Not if it was a random shooting. Let’s see if we can narrow down the location of the shooter.”
3
Wellington Hotel, Midtown Manhattan, 18th Floor Guest Room
July 4, 12:30 p.m.
So this is who I'm up against. One middle-aged NYPD detective and his dutiful sidekick.
Following standard procedure, I see. Interviewing the witnesses, scoping the crime scene, probing for clues. Except in this case, there are precious few. A distant gunshot, an as-yet-unrecovered slug, no discernible motive, and no suspect. Good luck with that.
The lady cop is kind of cute, though.
What brings a woman into this line of business? This is a man's domain, the business of killing. It's a testosterone-fueled affair played by angry men. No place for a lady.
She’s practically bursting out of her tight slacks and blouse. I can see her nipples protruding under her blouse. My high-powered scope is sometimes useful for other things besides killing people.
Does this turn you on, sweetheart? Chasing bad guys, cleaning up other people's dirty business?
What to make of her partner? He's obviously in charge, asking all the questions. Clean cut, fit and trim. Probably ex-military. He doesn't waste much time, gets right down to it. Surveying the crime scene, noting the obvious, collecting relevant details from the witnesses. He looks a little shaken by the blood though for an experienced cop. Does this hit a little close to home?
A witness is showing him his phone and the detective is noting the time of the shooting. I can make out the number. That could come in handy a little later. How convenient that my hotel thought to provide a pen and notepad with my free room. Perhaps I’ll give the witness’s friend a ring sometime. Just to remind everybody I'm always watching and keep them on their toes. A little mindfuck every now and then never hurt anyone.
They're pointing in my direction now. Can you see me? I see you. Right in my crosshairs.
But I've had my fill today. I'll see you again—sooner than you think. Come look for me. You won’t find me. I don't leave tracks.
Let the games begin.
4
Staten Island
July 5, 11:30 a.m.
Joe knocked on the front door of a gray clapboard house in south-central Staten Island. The home had flaking paint on its wood siding and a lopsided porch that squeaked under his weight. A pale middle-aged woman wearing a nightgown answered the door. Her eyes were red and swollen from crying.
This was one aspect of his job that Joe hated. Interviewing bereaved family members to search for clues was never a pleasant task. He'd experienced the horror of losing a loved one to violent crime himself and knew firsthand how invasive a police investigation could be. He didn’t waste any time with preliminaries.
“I’m Detective Joe Bannon with the NYPD, and this is my partner, Hannah Trimble. We're investigating the shooting of Sofia Raccheti yesterday. May we have a few minutes of your time?”
The woman pulled the door back and motioned them inside. A balding man in sweat pants and a sleeveless undershirt lay in a lounge chair, watching TV. The woman sat at a vinyl-covered kitchen table in the open family room and offered the detectives a cup of espresso.
“Thank you,” Joe said. The detectives took adjacent seats at the table. “Are you Franca and Mario Raccheti, the young woman's parents?”
“Yes,” the woman said, trying to steady a cup of espresso between her shaking hands. “Have you found her killer? What kind of animale would murder a pregnant woman and her unborn child?”
Joe's eyes narrowed in sympathy.
“I’m sorry for your loss, ma’am. This is what we're here to determine.”
He noticed a photo collage on
the kitchen wall showing a young girl at various stages of development. They seemed to stop around the age of thirteen or fourteen. He flashed back to when his own family mementos ended abruptly. A lone intruder had broken into his home while he was serving in the military overseas and violently attacked his wife and young son. The boy succumbed to his injuries days later.
The woman dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief and sniffed her nose, pulling Joe back to the present.
“Did your daughter mention any trouble she'd had recently?” he asked. “Anyone who might mean her harm?”
