Cold Justice
Page 1
COLD JUSTICE
Rayven T. Hill
Dedication & Acknowledgements
Many thanks to Merry Jones-De Winter for her hours of editing and proofreading. Her suggestions and insight have helped streamline the story and smooth out a few bumps. Thanks to beta readers for your comments and suggestions. Thanks to those who have paid good money for this book. I hope you got your money’s worth. And not least, thanks to my wife for her patience. (1003)
Connect with the Author
You can go his Web Site to contact him, sign up for his newsletter, or get updates on future releases.
Follow him on Facebook or Twitter or contact him by eMail at rayven@rayventhill.com.
Books by Rayven T. Hill
Blood and Justice
Cold Justice
Justice for Hire (Coming Soon)
Table of Contents
Dedication
Connect with the Author
Books by Rayven T. Hill
CHAPTERS
Prologue | 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22 | 23 | 24 | 25 | 26 | 27 | 28 | 29 | 30 | 31 | 32 | 33 | 34 | 35 | 36 | 37 | 38 | 39 | 40 | 41 | 42 | 43 | 44 | 45 | 46 | 47 | 48 | 49 | 50 | 51 | 52 | 53 | 54 | 55 | 56 | 57 | Epilogue
Also by Rayven T. Hill
Coming Soon
About the Author
Tell Your Friends About Cold Justice
Prologue
Monday, August 14th, 1:12 AM
ABIGAIL MACY’S pain ran deep. Her once beautiful life had been shattered.
She had never considered herself to be a strong woman, and the shrink she was seeing twice weekly had concluded she was suffering from anxiety disorder brought on by her recent tragedy.
She was filled with overwhelming feelings of panic, fear, uncontrollable obsessive thoughts, and recurring nightmares.
Her job performance had suffered. Personal relationships were falling apart, and now, she half-staggered the four blocks home, disappointed the pain she had been feeling earlier, this time had not been successfully smothered by her evening at Eddie’s.
They had seen her there often lately, as a recent but now frequent customer. She hated herself for it, but the reprieve helped to dull her senses.
Usually.
This time, her effort to gain relief made her pain more overwhelming, and tonight she sobbed quietly to herself as she walked the dark street toward her home and her faithful husband.
As she went, she began to feel ill. Physically ill. Nauseous.
She thought it was another panic attack, but the consumption of one too many glasses of cheap house wine at Eddie’s had been the cause.
She stopped and took a deep breath. Her queasy stomach was rebelling. She looked around. The street was quiet, so she stepped off the sidewalk and leaned over beside a hedge dividing two properties. There she deposited the contents of her stomach.
She looked up and hoped she hadn’t been seen. There was a light on in the front room of the house directly in front of her, but no one was around.
As she turned away, the sound of running footsteps came to her from the side of the house. She heard a low shriek for help. A woman’s voice.
She crouched in the shadows, frozen, watching. She saw as the helpless woman came into view, scrambling and stumbling. She stood rigid, and motionless, as the half-naked woman was overtaken, grabbed from behind, and brought to the ground. She saw her attacker kneel beside her, saw his hands go about her throat and cut short her final scream.
His victim struggled and clawed feebly. Soon all was still and quiet.
Abigail Macy saw the killer rise to his feet, then lean over and grab the woman’s hands. He began dragging her across the grass toward the darkness at the edge of the home.
She felt numb and lightheaded. The branches beside her rustled and crunched as she rose to her feet. As she stared, open-mouthed, he stopped and looked up from the shadows, staring into her frightened eyes.
She turned and ran.
She heard him behind her now, and she chanced a glance over her shoulder. He was close, and getting closer with each step.
Home was just ahead. Home and safety. She forced herself on, terrified and exhausted.
She stumbled the last few feet and fell onto the brightly lit steps of her home. She was unable to move, but was relieved to see her would-be attacker was gone.
After a while, she rose to her feet. She fumbled in her handbag for her key and opened the door. She fell inside and lay there for a few minutes before finally slipping quietly upstairs. She was careful not to wake her sleeping husband as she tiptoed past his room and fell exhausted into the safe double bed in the guest room.
Chapter 1
Monday, August 15th, 3:32 PM
JAKE LINCOLN sauntered into the home office and plunked his six foot four inch body into the guest chair in front of the desk, just as Annie dropped the phone back into its cradle.
“Who was that?” he asked.
“CNN.”
“What did they want this time?”
“More of the same. Seems like the whole world wants a piece now.” Annie leaned back in her chair and looked at her husband.
“Yeah, but we’ve already been on CNN. And FOX, and ABC, and all the rest of the alphabet.”
“It’s a big story,” Annie said. “Small town private investigators nab serial killer!”
“Not exactly a small town, but it makes a good headline.”
“I’m sure it’ll die down once the trial’s over. Meanwhile, the publicity has been great for business.”
Their office, formerly an unused bedroom, contained only the bare necessities. A couple of bookcases on one wall were filled with read and unread novels as well as a few law journals. Others looked like manuals of some sort, below a row of rarely used and obsolete encyclopedias. A few prints hanging on the wall completed the look.
“Hi Mom! Hi Dad!” An eight-year-old boy shot into the room and skidded to a stop.
“Hey Matty, how was school?”
“It was good, Dad. All the kids there think you’re a hero now. Of course, I had to tell them I knew it all the time.”
Jake laughed. “Your mom’s a hero too.”
Matty frowned. “No, she’s not,” he said. “Women can’t be heroes.”
“Of course they can, Matty.”
“Nope. She a heroine,” Matty laughed and darted from the room.
“My son, the linguist,” Annie said.
Lincoln Investigations had been a struggling young enterprise, employed mainly to obtain evidence for cases of divorce, child custody matters, missing persons, research into the character or financial status of individuals, as well as some security work. But when they had recently been engaged to find a missing child, it turned into much more than they expected. Catching a serial killer had led to all the publicity they were now receiving.
Prior to forming their venture into private investigation, Annie had been a part-time research assistant, while Jake had been a construction engineer for Cramer Developers. When Jake lost his job due to downsizing, Annie had to carry the family financially for a while. Her research experience had led naturally into their current undertaking. Until recently, it had barely been enough to keep them both busy and keep things afloat.
Annie leaned forward in the swivel chair and dropped her elbows on the timeworn desk. She picked up a sheet of paper and scanned it briefly. “All these missing children,” she said with a sigh. “It’s sad. Everybody’s calling now hoping we can find their missing child. All across the nation, suddenly they think we’re the experts.”
“I wish we could help them all,” Jake said, “but there’s too many, and they’re too far away. Anyway, we have a lot of s
teady local clients now, so it keeps us busy.”
“Speaking of clients, Edward Franklin from Franklin & Franklin called.” Annie leafed through a small stack of papers and pulled one from the pile. “They have some papers to serve. Their regular process server is on vacation, and they want us to serve a notice to appear in court. I believe it’s a child custody case.” She handed the paper to Jake.
Jake leaned forward, took the paper, scanned it, and looked at his watch. “I can probably do this today, or maybe in the morning.” He folded the paper and tucked it into his shirt pocket. He rubbed his hand through his short dark hair, stretched, yawned, and then rose to his feet. “But right now, I need to do a little workout. Matty’ll be down there waiting for me.”
As Annie stood and walked around the desk, Jake watched her. He never stopped admiring the trim figure she had kept all the years since he had known her. At five feet four inches tall, Jake had to willingly lean down so she could give him a quick kiss. Married for seventeen years, he never grew tired of that. He looked into her beautiful blue eyes and grinned down at her.
She kissed his grin and said, “I have a few things to clean up here, so go ahead, lift your weights, or whatever it is you two guys do down there.” As he let her go and turned to leave, Annie frowned and said, “Make sure Matty’s careful down there.”
Monday, August 15th, 6:05 PM
PHILIP MACY was a patient husband. After the tragic death of their child that had hit them so hard a few weeks ago, he was able to struggle on, but Abigail just seemed to be getting worse every day. As she grew more withdrawn, he became increasingly concerned. He was doing his best, and didn’t know how to do anything else for her other than to be patient and pray she would improve.
He sighed deeply as he tucked a paper napkin onto the tray beside the tuna sandwich, a small salad, and a glass of orange juice. He took a last look at the meal to be sure he had everything prepared, and then carried the tray from the kitchen and up the steps to the guest bedroom.
Balancing the tray with one hand, he tapped lightly on the door and pushed it open. Abigail was sitting on the bed, propped up by a couple of pillows. She was staring at the wall in front of her, taking no notice of him.
The curtains were drawn to hold back the evening sun, allowing only a peep of light in, painting a slash of white across the floor. The overhead light was off. The only thing distilling the otherwise gloomy room was a small lamp on the night table. He stood still a moment watching her before he finally approached the bed.
He slid the tray onto the nightstand beside her and sat down gently on the edge of the bed. “Abby,” he said softly, “I brought you something to eat.”
She stared at the tray a moment, and then slowly turned her face toward him. Her eyes were vacant. Her pretty face was haggard, and she seemed much older than her twenty-five years.
He reached out and gently caressed her long dark hair, once so beautiful, now unbrushed and uncared for.
“Thank you, Phil,” she whispered hoarsely. “I’m not hungry.” She put her head back and closed her eyes, breathing slowly and carefully, as though each breath was an effort.
“You should eat something.”
She opened her eyes, looked at him and managed a weak smile. “Maybe later.”
“Honey, you seem to have gotten worse, sadder, the last couple of days. It’s more than just Timmy. What’s troubling you?” he asked.
She shook her head and looked down, rubbing her fingers together as though nervous.
“I love you Abby. You know that. I want to help you any way I can. You know you can talk to me about anything.” His voice was gentle, but pleading.
She reached for a bottle of pills on the night table and popped the top. She took the glass of orange juice he offered her, and taking a big drink, she swallowed a couple of pills and set the glass back.
He continued to study her, watching, waiting, and feeling helpless, useless, and weak.
A tear fell from her eye. She ignored it. Then another, and another.
He leaned forward, and holding her, he soothed her as she began to sob, quietly at first, and then uncontrollably. She clung to him. Her tears soaked his collar, her sobs in his ears, his gentle heart breaking.
She wept for a while, and finally managed to speak, her voice weak, low, and husky. “He killed her.”
He thought he misunderstood her. He pushed her gently back so he could see into her eyes, a puzzled look on his face.
“He killed her,” she repeated.
He cocked his head. “Killed who?”
“I saw him kill her.”
Philip studied his wife thoughtfully, frowning slightly. She appeared to be frightened, and she still clung to his arm. “Who did you see?” he asked.
“Last night. On the way home. I felt sick, so I stopped for a minute. I saw a man kill somebody.”
Philip frowned deeply. “Are you sure, honey?” he asked.
She looked intently at him and nodded slowly. “I’m sure,” she said.
“Did you see who it was?”
She shook her head.
“Did you see who did it?”
She shook her head again. “I saw him, but I don’t know who it was.”
Philip sat up straight and looked at her carefully. She was motionless, her moist blue eyes telling him the truth. “Why didn’t you tell me before?” he asked.
“I was afraid.”
Philip could see she was still afraid, hesitant, and reluctant to say more. “We have to call the police,” he said.
She nodded and whispered, “Ok.”
Chapter 2
Tuesday, August 16th, 6:55 PM
ANNIE TRIED TO avoid going out on business in the evenings. That was family time, and Jake and Annie liked to spend time with Matty. But sometimes it was unavoidable.
They had gotten a call from Philip Macy. It sounded urgent, so Annie promised to come right away. She called her friend next door, Chrissy Pascual, who watched Matty occasionally if they had to go out.
“Sure Annie, bring him right over. Glad to help.”
Chrissy was a single mom, and her seven-year-old son, Kyle, and Matty were good friends. When Annie told Matty that Chrissy would watch him, he was out the front door and gone before Annie made it outside. He ran into the neighbor’s house without knocking, and was through the house and into the back yard with Kyle before Annie got there.
Chrissy was at the front door when she arrived. “You guys go on and do whatever you have to do. He’ll be fine here.”
Jake was already waiting, revving up the Firebird when Annie got back. She jumped in the front seat and they roared from the driveway.
Silverpine Street was about five minutes drive away. Jake made it in three, and squealed to a stop under the shade of a towering maple. They climbed from the vehicle and surveyed the house in front of them.
Number 88 was a typical middle-class house in a typical middle-class neighborhood. A well manicured lawn. Hedges on both sides of the property. A flowerbed ran under the front window and down the edge of the driveway. It seemed to be somewhat overgrown with weeds. A single car garage jutted out in front. They skirted around the Lexus in the driveway and approached the front door.
The door swung open on the first buzz by a man whose face revealed a heavy weariness. He looked to be in his late twenties, but had a dangerously thin spot on the top of his head, framed by shaggy dark hair caressing his ears.
Jake spoke first. “We’re Jake and Annie Lincoln.”
“Hello, I’m Philip Macy. Come in please.” He had a gentle quiet voice, soft-spoken and calm.
They followed him into the front room. He motioned toward a couch snuggled up against the window and waited for them to sit before taking a seat on the edge of a loveseat opposite them.
Jake sat back, crossed his legs guy style, and looked around. He noticed the room had a bit of an uncared for appearance. Not careless, just dust on the furniture. A few things lying around. Perhaps
the room could do with a vacuuming. It seemed to be missing a woman’s touch.
Annie snapped open her handbag and pulled out a notepad and pen.
“Thanks for coming so soon,” Macy said.
Annie encouraged him with a smile. “How may we help you, Mr. Macy?”
“Please, call me Philip.”
Annie nodded. Jake smiled. Philip sighed. “I hope you can help me... us. It’s my wife, really. I don’t know exactly where to begin.”
“Tell us about your wife,” Annie suggested.
Philip looked at the ceiling and rubbed his hands slowly together. “My wife,” he began. “Abby is the kindest soul I ever met. And always so sensible and levelheaded. Until recently.” He paused.
They waited for him to continue.
He sighed again before speaking. “We have a son... had a son. Timmy. He was three years old.” He glanced down for a moment, and then back up with a faraway look in his eyes. He continued with a hoarse voice. “He was killed accidentally just over a month ago. Abby blames herself, but it was just an accident.” He stopped speaking abruptly, looking down at his hands as he fidgeted with them.
“Wow,” Jake whispered.
Annie wrote something in her note pad, and then looked at Jake, and back at Philip. Her face was sympathetic while she waited for him to continue.
“It was very hard. For both of us, but Abby has slipped into a deep depression. She’s been seeing a psychiatrist, and he diagnosed her with anxiety disorder. She’s been on some medication, but I don’t know how much it’s helping her. She doesn’t want to see anyone, and barely speaks even to me.”
“I can’t imagine how both of you are feeling,” Annie said, “but you have our deepest sympathy.”
“Do you have any children?” Philip asked.
Annie nodded. “We have an eight-year-old boy.”