Cold Justice

by Rayven T. Hill

  The man sighed, the door slammed, the chain rattled, and the door swung open again.

  Hank tucked his badge away and said, “I’m Detective Hank Corning. I need to speak to you about Samantha Riggs.”

  The man stared and then looked inquisitively at Philip. “Who’s this?”

  “This is my... associate, Philip Macy.”

  The guy looked them over carefully, and finally asked, “What can I do for you?”

  Hank said, “Unfortunately, Miss Riggs’ body was found this morning. She had been murdered, and we would like to see her apartment. Could you open it up for us, please?”

  “Samantha? Dead?”

  Hank nodded.

  Busby shook his head slowly and said, “She was always a good tenant. Pays on time. Never caused no problems.” He paused, then, “That’s a real shame.”

  Hank thought he didn’t appear to be all that upset, and was probably worried more about finding a new tenant.

  “Just a minute,” Busby said, as he turned and went into another room. He appeared a moment later with a set of keys jingling and dangling from his hand. He put on a pair of slippers, and stepped through the doorway, closing the door behind him. He selected a key from his ring and locked it, tested the lock, and said, “This way.” He ambled down the hallway to a set up stairs and pointed. “202. Up there.”

  Busby moved slowly, one step at a time, holding tightly to the railing. They followed him to the second floor and through another door into a hallway. 202 was the second apartment down, and Busby fiddled with the keys, found one he liked, and unlocked the door. “Just lock up when you leave,” he said, as he toddled away.

  As soon as Hank stepped into the apartment, though not in total disarray, it was obvious someone other than Miss Riggs had recently been here. And it appeared they had been searching for something.

  Philip followed Hank into the kitchen. A couple of drawers were hanging open, and their contents rearranged. Hank browsed through them as Philip leaned against the wall watching.

  He inspected the rest of the cupboards and drawers, peeked in the fridge, and rummaged through a basket of odds and ends on the countertop. There were a couple of unwashed dishes in the sink. Everything was otherwise normal.

  The living room looked untouched. A TV sat blackly in one corner, propped up on a wooden box. An air conditioner was tucked into a window, humming, kicking out cool air. Hank shut it off. A vase of faded flowers sat on a coffee table, the water sucked up and dried away.

  A cabinet had a couple of small drawers, containing a few photos and other keepsakes. He inspected them and found nothing out of the ordinary. He tucked a clear photo of Samantha in his breast pocket.

  He lifted the cushions on the couch, browsed through the CDs, and flipped through a bridal magazine on a small table beside the lazy chair.

  Hank glanced at Philip. “Was Samantha getting married?”

  Philip shook his head. “No. She didn’t even have a boyfriend, as far as I know.”

  Philip picked up a framed photo from the coffee table. Hank took a peek at it. It was a photo of Samantha and Abby, smiling at the camera. It appeared to have been taken in the office. Philip sighed softly and set it back on the stand.

  “Why don’t you keep that?” Hank suggested.

  “Are you sure it’s all right?”

  Hank shrugged. “I won’t tell anyone.”

  Philip looked at the photo again. “Ok,” he said, as he picked it up again.

  Hank took a last look around and then went into the bathroom off the kitchen. He knelt down and opened the cupboard doors under the sink, and then stood, flipped open the medicine cabinet and studied the contents. Nothing out of place.

  He noticed the lid for the toilet tank was slightly awry. He lifted it, looked inside, and set the lid back.

  Beside the bathroom, Hank saw what was obviously Samantha’s bedroom. As he stepped inside and looked around, the bed immediately caught his eye. The comforter that was falling down so neatly all around had been caught, in one spot, between the mattress and the box spring. It appeared the mattress may have been lifted, and dropped carelessly back into place. He knelt down and raised the mattress, peeking under. There was nothing of interest there.

  The drawers of the nightstand were partially open. Hank peered inside, rummaged around, and found nothing unusual. The clock on top of the stand cast a faint red glow. A small lamp sat further back, a John Grisham novel beside it, a bookmark pushed in halfway. There was a little wooden box on the stand as well. Hank picked it up, opened it, and saw a few pair of earrings and some other costume jewelry. He snapped it shut and set it back.

  The closet door was open. He explored the clothes on the rack. Sweaters, dresses, skirts, a gown or two. There was a row of shoes on the floor. Dress shoes, running shoes, high heels, and low heels. Looking up, he saw a shoebox on the top shelf. He retrieved it and popped it open. Photos, a bundle of letters, a few foreign coins. He browsed the letters briefly and flipped through the photos. Among them, there were a couple more of Abby, and another one of Abby and Samantha. He slipped them from the pack and handed them to Philip.

  There was a small dresser containing three drawers. Hank opened each drawer and went through its contents. Mostly underwear, socks, t-shirts. Nothing of interest.

  He took a final glance around and turned to Philip. “There doesn’t seem to be anything unusual here. Someone has searched this place though. I wonder what they were looking for. Any ideas?”

  “Not a clue,” Philip said.

  “It may be nothing, but we are assuming whoever killed Samantha knew who had... knew about what happened to Abby, and that’s why she was targeted too.”

  “Abby may have told her something?”

  “Perhaps.” Hank frowned. “But we may never know if she did or not.”

  Philip dabbed at his eyes with the back of his hand and sighed deeply.

  “Let’s go,” Hank said. “I want to drop by the Lincoln’s, and then I’ll take you back to work.”

  Chapter 42

  Friday, August 19th, 12:15 AM

  ANNIE SET A TRAY with four glasses and a cold pitcher of fresh lemonade, dripping with moisture, on the deck table. The mound of ice crackled and popped as it met the early afternoon heat. The sun was scorching, but the back of the house cast a shade over the deck. She snuggled into one of the chairs and sat back.

  Hank had called to say he was dropping by for a few minutes and bringing Philip Macy with him. She had told him to come around the side of the house. They would be on the back deck.

  She looked over at Jake. He was scratching his head and frowning at some of Annie’s notes.

  “See anything interesting there?” she asked.

  He looked up. “Not really, but I’ve been thinking, and it seems to me, since the murder of Samantha was in such a public place, there might be somebody around that saw a woman in a red hat and red jacket.”

  “You may be right,” Annie said. “But how are you going to find them?”

  “I thought I might hit the streets. Ask around the park. Who knows what might turn up?”

  “It’s a big park, and a lot of people go through that place every day. That could be a big job.”

  Jake shrugged. “Maybe. Either way, it won’t hurt. I can’t think of anything else right now.” He paused. “Somebody had to have seen her at one point or another, but finding that someone, that may be the impossible task.”

  “But if you do find someone, that doesn’t mean they saw the murder,” Annie told him.

  “Yeah, I know,” Jake said. “But I gotta try.”

  Annie looked vacantly across the back yard and nodded. She hoped something would break soon, before anyone else got hurt, or worse... murdered.

  “Hello,” she heard a shout. Hank was coming across the back of the house. Philip Macy was with him, looking tired and glum.

  “Sit down. Have a glass of lemonade,” Annie said, as Hank and Philip climbed the stairs to the
deck. They took a seat as she filled four glasses and handed them around.

  “Ah, that’s good,” Hank said, as he took a gulp.

  Annie sat and propped her arms on the rests, holding her drink with both hands. She looked at Philip, sitting forward, quietly sipping his refreshment. “So, what brings you here, Philip?”

  He gave a faint smile. “I just couldn’t stay in the office any more. I couldn’t keep my mind on my work, and then when Hank came and told me about Samantha...” He paused and sighed. “It was pretty rough, and he asked if I wanted to go with him to her apartment.” He shrugged. “And here I am.”

  “We just came from there,” Hank said, taking another sip.

  “Find anything?” Jake asked. He was cooling his forehead with the side of the frosty glass.

  “I can’t say I did. Her apartment had been searched before we got there. That much was obvious.” He looked at Philip. “But we didn’t find anything out of place. I don’t know what I was looking for, but whatever it was, I didn’t find it.” He slipped the photo of Samantha from his pocket and handed it to Jake. “I brought this for you, anyway.”

  Jake took the photo, glanced at it and stuffed it into his pocket.

  “Did you hear about Blackley?” Annie asked Hank.

  Hank looked at her, a question on his face.

  “They let him go.”

  Hank frowned. “What? I mean, that’s good news, but why am I the last to know?”

  “It just happened. He called me. Apparently, the crown withdrew the charges for lack of evidence. I’m sure they’ll let you know soon.”

  “Diego won’t like that,” Hank said. “He had everything wrapped up nice and neatly.”

  “So what does this all mean?” Philip asked. “Is this going to help find Abby’s killer?”

  “Well,” Hank said. “It means whoever killed Vera Blackley is still out there, and I think if we find him, then we’ll have Samantha’s killer, the same person who killed your wife.” He paused. “At least, that’s our theory. And, it’s the only one that makes sense.”

  “I know it’s the right theory,” Jake put in.

  Annie looked at her watch. “I’m dropping over to see Mr. Blackley in a few minutes. He should be home after one o’clock.”

  “And I’m going to the park,” Jake said. “See if I can find anybody who saw something.”

  Hank grinned. “And I’m going to drop Philip home, and then I’ll be out of touch for the rest of the day. We’re trying to set up a sting downtown. See if we can catch the guys doing all the robberies.” His grin faded, and he glanced at Philip. “Sorry I can’t do anything else on this right now Philip, but until the captain reopens this case...”

  “I understand,” Philip said.

  Hank continued, “But the good news is, when he reopens Vera’s case, then that’s as good as if he reopens your wife’s case, because we’re looking for the same guy.”

  Philip nodded.

  “Right now, there are a couple of other detectives looking into the murder of Samantha, and I’ll be on it hot and heavy first thing tomorrow,” Hank said. “It’s just that I have this thing right now that’s been planned for a while.” He slugged back the rest of his drink and set the glass on the table.

  “What happened with Pierre Boutin?” Annie asked Hank, and then glanced at Philip and explained, “Boutin is the one who discovered Samantha’s body.” She smiled. “He didn’t speak much English.”

  Hank laughed. “Somebody dropped by the hotel and took his statement. Somebody that speaks French, that is.” He shrugged. “He didn’t really have anything to add. He found the body, hailed a cab, and the cabbie called it in. End of story.”

  Jake gulped the rest of his lemonade, stood, and poured another one. He offered the pitcher around, but they declined. He set it back down and took a long swig before asking, “Philip, what’s your plans for the near future?”

  Philip sighed and sat back. “I thought I might just close up the office for a few days and stay at home. There’s no use being at work right now.”

  “You’re welcome here any time,” Annie said. “Please, don’t feel like you’re imposing.”

  “That’s very kind.” Philip smiled weakly.

  Hank stood. “I had better get going. Are you ready Philip?”

  “I can drop Philip home,” Jake said. “I’m going that way.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “I’ll talk to you tomorrow then.” Hank gave a little wave, stepped off the deck, walked across the back of the house and out of sight.

  “I have to go too,” Annie said as she stood. “We’ll keep in touch Philip, and don’t forget my offer.” She slid open the back door of the house, and went into the kitchen. She knew Jake would be leaving soon as well.

  She wasn’t satisfied with how slowly things were moving. She knew it had only been a couple of days, but hoped they could get on the right track soon.

  She picked her cell phone and car keys out of the wicker basket on the end of the counter, grabbed her handbag, and headed for the front door.

  Chapter 43

  Friday, August 19th, 1:00 PM

  JAKE DROVE DOWN the boulevard bordering Richmond Valley Park and pulled into a spot across the street in front of a dry cleaner. He didn’t really have a plan, just see who’s around, show them Samantha’s picture, and find out if anyone had seen her. He stepped out and crossed to the other side, approaching the park near the wading pool. The pool was busy. Mostly mothers with toddlers, splashing, laughing and giggling.

  Since the medical examiner had said the time of Samantha Riggs’ death had been between eight PM and midnight that would limit the amount of people who may have been in the area at the time. By eight PM, it would have been starting to get dark, and by midnight, it would have been pitch black except for the occasional streetlight. The question is, who would have been around at that time of the evening?

  He ruled out picnickers, families, and splashing toddlers. Maybe joggers, dog walkers, a few teenagers, or those out for a late night walk. Perhaps even Sammy Fisher, the homeless man who had found Vera Blackley’s body. Or maybe some other street person.

  He walked across the lawn, and behind the hedge to where Samantha Riggs had been found, and looked around the area. Everything had been cleaned up, the tape was long gone, and the spot was deserted.

  He glanced around the park. There was a mobile hotdog peddler down a little further. He approached the vendor, a dumpy man, who looked like he had consumed too much of his own product.

  “Were you set up here last night? In the evening?” Jake asked him.

  Grease sizzled and spit as the vendor flipped some dogs on the grill. He spoke without looking up. “Sure was. I’m always here, until it gets dark. Then I pack up for the night.”

  Jake pulled the photo from his pocket. “Did you happen to see this girl? She was wearing a red hat and jacket.”

  The vendor dropped the tongs, wiped his hands on his apron, and took the picture. He looked at it a moment, cocked his head in thought, and handed it back, shaking his head. “Nope, not that I can recall, and I know she never bought anything from me. I wouldn’t forget a pretty face like that.”

  “Thanks anyway.” Jake took back the picture, wiped off a greasy fingerprint, and tucked it back in his pocket.

  He wandered across the manicured lawn to an old man on a bench, sitting up straight as a stick, one hand resting on his lap, the other gripping a cane. The elderly man stopped whistling as Jake approached and sat beside him.

  “Good afternoon, young fella,” the old man said.

  Jake smiled and nodded. “Did you happen to be in the park last night after eight?” he asked.

  “Sheesh, no. That’s way past my bedtime.”

  Jake thanked him and moved on. He approached a pair of joggers, a mother with a stroller carrying a whining baby, and several others who were wandering about alone, in pairs, or groups of three or four. No
one had seen a girl last night, wearing a red hat and jacket.

  He walked back to the wading pool, and looked around. A homeless man was sitting cross-legged, leaning against a lamppost, and clutching a tattered cap, waiting for spare change.

  Jake approached him. He was unkempt and his skin looked like horsehide from years of too much sun. Thin gray hair dripped down the side of his head, exaggerating his hairless and hardened crown. He stared blankly ahead, unmoving, and unmindful of Jake’s presence.

  Jake dug in his pocket, came up with a handful of coins and dropped them in the cap. He crouched down and held up the photo.

  “Sir, did you happen to see this woman last night?”

  Horsehide shrugged, looked away, and stared blankly across the park.

  “She would have been wearing a red cap and jacket.”

  He stared at Jake for a moment. Something glinted in his eyes, and then he looked away.

  Jake had seen the spark. “It’s very important,” he said. “This woman was murdered and I need to find out who killed her.”

  The wrinkled man paid no attention.

  Jake pulled out his wallet and found a five-dollar bill. He snapped it between his fingers to draw attention. The weathered eyes turned back and ogled the bill. Jake folded it and dropped it into the cap.

  “No cops.” The man’s voice was as rough as his skin.

  “I’m not a cop. I’m a private investigator.”

  “No cops,” he repeated and looked away.

  Jake sensed the man knew something. He tried again, this time with a twenty-dollar bill. A hand shot up, snatched the bill, and Rawhide rolled to his feet, limping away, his hat still in his hand.

  Jake watched him go and shook his head. He needed a new plan of attack. He sat on the bench by the wading pool and thought for a while.

  “That’s it!” He snapped his fingers and jumped from the bench, striding across the park to the street. He crossed and climbed into the Pontiac, peeling away.

  In five minutes or so, he turned onto Front Street, crossed an overpass, and pulled to the side. He jumped out, walked back thirty feet, and approached an embankment. He could see Richmond River below, flowing smoothly past on its way to lower ground. He was on the north side of the river. He climbed down a few feet, ducked under the overpass, and looked around.