Behind the Closed Door: A Detective Series of Crime and Suspense Thrillers (The Jacob Hayden Series Book 2)

by Charles Prandy

  Behind the Closed Door

  A Novel

  by Charles Prandy

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination and are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Copyright © 2013 by Charles Prandy

  All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the author.

  Cover image by Ronnell D. Porter

  Other Books by Charles Prandy

  Jacob Hayden Series

  The Avenged - Book 1

  Behind the Closed Door – Book 2

  The Game of Life or Death – Book 3

  Within – Book 4

  Stand Alone Novels

  The Last of the Descendants

  To be notified of future works by Charles, please go to www.charlesprandy.com.

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  Prologue

  Trenton, New Jersey

  They came for him at midnight. Four people dressed in black. Black ski masks covered their faces. Black gloves covered their hands. Clifton Marshall didn’t hear them enter his house. He didn’t hear them walk up his stairs and enter his bedroom. He and his wife, Deborah, were fast asleep. He didn’t hear that two of the four broke off and each entered one of the kid’s rooms. Two teenagers, a boy and girl named Melanie and Kyle, slept comfortably in their beds soon to be awoken by strangers.

  Clifton slept snug with a thick brown blanket covering his shoulders. Drool hung from his partly open mouth. His eyes fluttered back and forth under his eyelids. His brain was too caught up in whatever dream he was having to notice that two intruders turned on the bedroom lights. It wasn’t until he heard his wife’s piercing scream that his mind brought him back to consciousness.

  He quickly sat up. For a second he thought that he still might be dreaming. But when he felt his wife clinging to his left arm like he was her life support, he knew that he wasn’t. The light in the hallway came on and Clifton heard a rugged voice say “move” and then bushy haired Melanie and Kyle came into the room, startled and stumbling over one another. No one said anything. The two intruders from the hallway were each holding black handguns. Seconds passed with total silence.

  “You can take what you want,” Clifton nervously said. “Anything in the house is yours.”

  One of the intruders stepped forward. He was the tallest of the group with broad shoulders and thick arms. When he spoke, his voice was calm.

  “I’m glad you’re willing to give us your house. But the house isn’t what I’m after.”

  “What do you want then?”

  “There’s something I want you to do for me.”

  “Anything you want. Just please leave my family alone.”

  “That’ll be up to you.”

  Clifton gulped, and in the silence it sounded like a boulder fell down his throat.

  “You’ll need to get dressed,” the intruder said.

  “Where are we going?”

  “To your place of employment.”

  The intruder looked over at Kyle who was a bit tall and thick for a fourteen year old.

  “Young Kyle as well.”

  “My son can stay here. He’ll be no trouble. Wait, how do you know Kyle’s name?”

  “That shouldn’t be your concern right now. And I’m not worried about trouble. He’ll be put to work.”

  “Is it money you want? I can write a check right now. We only keep a little cash in the safe at the office.”

  “I don’t want your money either.” The intruder moved a little closer. “Now, you and Kyle get dressed. Two of my associates will stay behind and watch over your lovely wife and daughter. If everything goes well, you’ll be back before sunrise. If not, you won’t be coming back at all.”

  Clifton looked over at his son and nodded his head. “It’s okay Kyle, just do what they say.”

  He slipped from under the covers wearing pajama pants and a white T-shirt. He quickly found a pair of blue jeans and a jacket from the closet. His hands shook when he kissed his wife and daughter on the cheek. Outside the night air was cool. Clifton was told to sit in the front passenger seat and Kyle was to sit in the rear seat. The intruder who did all of the talking was the driver. The engine fired up and warm air blew through the vents. Clifton looked up at his bedroom window and saw his wife standing there, staring back at them.

  The car slowly pulled off and then accelerated as it moved away. Clifton’s mind raced with horrid and fearful thoughts. He closed his eyes. It’d been years since he said a prayer, but he figured this was as good a time as any to ask for mercy. His prayer was simple: please let me see my wife again. However, unfortunately for Clifton, this prayer didn’t get answered the way he wanted.

  Part One

  One

  Washington, D.C.

  The alarm clock beeped at 5:30 a.m. I pushed the button to stop the annoying sound and then turned around in bed. I’d been up since five. Didn’t fall asleep until three. Didn’t go to bed until two. Didn’t want to fall asleep at all, but knew I had to at some point. I haven’t been sleeping like normal people do lately. It sometimes feels that I never will.

  Whenever I do fall asleep, I wake up the same way: sweating, panting and near breathless. The sheets underneath my body are always soaked from perspiration. I have the same dream over and over again, the one where I can’t stop the brutal murder of my wife, Theresa, who was murdered five months ago. I wake up screaming her name and then look over my right shoulder to where she used to sleep. Her side of the bed was neatly made reflecting her absence from it. Every morning starts with the same recurring theme. This morning was no different.

  Today’s my first day back to work as a homicide detective for the Washington, D.C. police department. Part of me wishes I didn’t have to go back, but the other part knows that’s where I’m needed. I’ve been on temporary disability for the past five months, healing from the beating I took. I swung my legs from underneath the covers and walked to the bathroom. The light flicked on and I stared at myself in the mirror. The bruises and broken bones along my face, which required surgery to repair, have healed. The doctors told me that I may never regain 20/20 vision in my left eye, and so far they’ve been right. Sight out of my left eye is a little fuzzy compared to my right. I still bear a scar along my left cheek from when I was shot on the yacht in Chesapeake Bay, but otherwise the surgeons at the Washington Hospital Center did a good job repairing my face.

  I looked at my facial features from different angles and pulled at the skin just under my eyes. My eyes were red but I didn’t feel tired. I need to shave. I need to cut my hair. I need to shower. But I don’t.

  “Jacob, you look like shit,” I say to my reflection.

  I’ve been seeing a therapist who diagnosed me with post-traumatic stress disorder most often seen in military veterans returning from war. Some symptoms of PTSD include flashbacks, hallucinations and nightmares, all of which I’ve been
having. I thought I could handle Theresa’s death, but I’m finding it extremely difficult.

  I sought and found revenge against the people who killed her, but that hasn’t made anything better. Yes, they’re dead. Yes, I found justice with my gun. And yes, I’m depressed beyond measure. So then what does revenge prove?

  I’m not going to lie, there have been days where I sit at the edge of my bed staring at the Glock I keep on my night stand and wonder whether I should do it. One time I even picked it up and felt the weight of its bullets in my hands which to me felt like the weight of the world on my shoulders. But then I put it down and sat back at the edge of the bed and continued to stare at it.

  I worry about the day when I might not be able to put it down.

  One thing that helps is the support I received from my community. I became kind of a local celebrity after news got around that I was the one responsible for taking down a prominent judge who was involved in weapons smuggling and money laundering. Since then, I have received letters from people across the country offering their support and prayers. I was even contacted by a Hollywood agent who wanted to buy the rights to my story, but I declined his offer. I didn’t want what happened to be glorified and glamorized on the big screen.

  My chocolate Lab, Henry, who’s now five months old and weighs close to fifty pounds, brushed by my legs in the bathroom. He looked up at me with those dark brown eyes as if he were saying, “Good morning, now get me something to eat.” Theresa gave Henry to me as a present the day she died.

  “Okay, big guy, guess you’re telling me that you’re hungry.”

  Henry raised his head and replied with a deep, “Wuff.”

  “All right. Guess I am too. Gotta go to work today so you’ll be on your own for a few hours. Think you can handle that?”

  “Wuff.”

  I turned the lights off in the bathroom and went downstairs followed by my fifty-pound chocolate Lab.

  Two

  An hour later, I was sitting at my desk at the V Street Police Station. On top of my desk were welcome back cards from other police officers and staff. Though I’d only been in the building for a few minutes, I’d already been greeted by half of the station with hugs, handshakes and kisses on my cheek. I wasn’t sure how warmly I’d be received due to my involvement with the Judge Peters case that nearly ended my life. The Judge had cops on his payroll who were indicted, including my superior and friend for almost ten years, Lieutenant Robert Polenski.

  Someone new was sitting across from me at my old partner’s desk, Charlie Evans. Charlie was killed by Nathan Hunt, one of the men who worked for Judge Peters.

  The young woman with sparking blue eyes and a smile that would make Crest jealous, politely extended her hand when I was freed from my co-workers.

  “Hi Detective Hayden, I’m Patricia Jennings, but everyone just calls me Pat.”

  “Nice to meet you,” I said, extending my hand. “Call me Jacob.”

  “I’ve heard a lot about you. I hope you don’t mind, but I was assigned to this desk. I know about what happened with Detective Evans and”

  I raised my hand to let her know that I didn’t mind. “Don’t worry about it. I’m sure Charlie would be happy you were chosen to take his desk. So where are you coming from? I haven’t seen you around before.”

  “I’m from the Sixth District. Did patrol for seven years and made Detective six months ago.”

  Before I could ask another question, Captain John Hellsworth came into the room with a warm greeting on his face. Everyone teased him that he looked like Peter Parker’s boss, John Jonah Jamison, from the infamous Spider-Man comic books, because of his thick mustache and crew cut hair.

  “Jacob, good to see you’re back and doing so well.”

  “Thanks, Captain.”

  “Why don’t you come into my office and I’ll bring you up to speed.”

  Captain Hellsworth’s office was sterile and cramped with a gray metal government issued desk and file cabinet. If you didn’t know any better, you’d think he just moved into his office because there was nothing in it except for a desk, chairs and the file cabinet. He once told me that the reason he keeps his office so plain is because he doesn’t want it to feel comfortable. He believes that if a cop feels too comfortable, he is likely to become too relaxed. And if a cop becomes too relaxed, he could miss something which could have a bad end-result.

  “Have a seat.” He motioned for me to sit down in one of the chairs. “So how’s everything going?” he said as he leaned back.

  “Good, good. Anxious to get back to work.”

  “You know, Jacob, I’m going to cut to the chase.” He leaned forward and stared into my eyes. “There’s a lot of pissed off cops in the city who don’t like how things went down.”

  “Are you one of them, Sir?”

  “Listen, Polenski was a friend of mine. I’m not going to hide that. He was a friend of yours too. He was a friend to a lot of cops here. From my point of view, what he did was the ultimate betrayal to the badge. So am I a little pissed? I’d have to say yes. But you did what you had to do and you brought down a terrible man.”

  “So what you’re trying to tell me is that I might get some evil stares from time to time.”

  “You know as well as I do that being a cop is like being in a brotherhood. We try to look out for our own. Although some are more loyal than others.” He leaned back into his chair and folded his hands behind his head. “I’ve already received a call from the Chief and he wants you to know that the department has your back. But Jacob, I’ve got to tell you, not everyone feels that way. Some of the cops that were indicted had strong ties to their departments.”

  “I didn’t know how deep it ran until the Chief visited me at the hospital.”

  “Yeah, pretty deep. Just keep your eyes and ears open for a while, okay. My door is always open if ever something comes up.”

  “Will do.”

  The room went quiet for a minute. Captain Hellsworth opened one of his drawers and rummaged through some manila folders and handed me a stack.

  “Here, go through these. I know it’s not the most glamorous thing to do, but I want to ease you back into things. You’ll be doing some light desk work for a few days.”

  I looked at the folders and saw that they were filled with administrative papers. Paperwork. Great, I’ve fallen down the rabbit hole.

  “And I see you’ve met Pat.”

  “Yeah, just a few minutes ago.”

  “Good. I’m teaming you up with her. She’s a rookie detective, but a good cop. Very smart.”

  “She’s my new partner?”

  “For the time being. Just show her the ropes and how we do things around here. I’m sure she’ll catch on just fine.”

  I stood up and turned to leave. “Jacob,” Captain said with a smile, “I’m really glad you’re back.”

  “So am I.”

  Three

  One Month Later

  Erin Smith hadn’t heard from her husband, Jack, in over forty-eight hours. He left Sunday morning and only planned on being away for two days. He went on a two-day business trip to Virginia Beach, Virginia, where vendors from across the country held an annual conference. He drove his car because the drive from D.C. to Virginia Beach was only four hours.

  She tried his hotel room but only got a generic voicemail recording which was no help. She tried his cell phone and got the same thing. This wasn’t like Jack. He always called. The first night she didn’t think much of it. He was at the beach with a few of his colleagues and probably had a few too many beers after the convention. Then the second day rolled around and Jack still hadn’t called.

  Erin paced back and forth in the kitchen. It was close to ten o’clock and he should have been home hours ago. She called the hotel again and spoke with a desk clerk. The clerk confirmed that a Jack Smith checked out of the hotel earlier that morning. She thought some more. If Jack stayed at the conference until at least three o’clock, a four hour drive would
get him home by seven. She knew how bad traffic could get on I-95, especially the closer it got to the beltway. Maybe there was an accident and traffic was completely backed up.

  She reached over to the remote control and punched the on button. A twenty-five inch flat screen TV that was mounted to a wall lit up. Because it was just about ten o’clock, all of the news channels were about to come on. She checked channels five, seven and nine. Watched them each for a few minutes hoping for a traffic update. There were none. No accidents worth reporting in the D.C. Metro area.

  Erin wondered if she should call the police. She didn’t want to jump to conclusions, but two straight days without hearing from her husband was unusual. Maybe he got mugged somewhere and was unconscious. She let the thought stir in her head for a minute but then quickly let it pass. Jack was a big guy. Strong and tough. He knew martial arts. He knew how to fight. He was extremely fit for someone who recently turned forty. If someone were to mug him, it would take four men to take him down. So Jack probably didn’t get mugged.

  So where is he?

  Then another thought popped into her head, one that she hadn’t contemplated. He left her for another woman. Could he do that? No, not Jack. Erin didn’t want to believe Jack was capable of something like that, but she also didn’t want to be naïve. How many times had she watched sixty minutes or some other news program where a woman was crying and saying she never saw it coming.

  She thought some more. No, not Jack. He would never do that. He was loyal to their marriage. He was loyal to her. They’d been married for eleven years. He never exhibited any signs of cheating. He never came home late. Never smelled of another woman’s perfume. Never had any holes in a story that would make her think he was cheating. So he wasn’t with another woman. She was sure of that.