The Hardest Part (A James Bishop Short Story)

by Jason Dean

  ‘It’s no secret. After inheritance tax, and minus my expenses, the estate comes to eight hundred and seven thousand, five hundred and fifty-eight dollars.’

  Kim made an impressed face. ‘And so somehow your investigation finally brought you to our little town.’

  ‘Right. I’ll spare you all the details, other than to say I found it hard to believe that Lenny robbed that safe and skipped town with the proceeds; it just didn’t fit with what I knew of his character. Then yesterday I found out from Lewis Hawkins that Lenny had also gotten you pregnant, which put a whole new spin on things. And when I spoke to you at the store and you confirmed that Lenny knew he was going to be a father, that sealed it for me. He’d never have run out on you two, and I knew then that it was unlikely that I’d find him alive. But I still had to know for sure, one way or the other. Unfortunately, it turned out I was correct on that score, as we both know. But at least one good thing’s come out of it. I’m now finally able to fulfil my role as executor of Jacob’s will.’

  Kim frowned at me. ‘How? Lenny’s dead.’

  ‘Well, that’s the interesting part. See, the will clearly specifies that the beneficiary is Jacob’s sole surviving relative – his son, Leonard – but since Leonard’s also deceased that means Florida’s “anti-lapse” law comes into effect, which effectively means that the estate passes down to the beneficiary’s direct descendants, assuming he or she has any.’ I smiled. ‘Can you see where I’m going with this, Kim?’

  Kim’s eyes grew large as enlightenment dawned. ‘You mean Lisa?’

  ‘That’s right,’ I said, and looked over at the little girl, who was still oblivious to the conversation. ‘Jacob never knew he had a granddaughter, but I’m sure had he known he would have wanted her to be provided for. So, once all the legalities are sorted out, I’ll set up a trust fund to make sure her future’s secure. At least financially. And her mother’s, too, of course.’

  Kim was still staring at me, open-mouthed.

  ‘After all,’ I said, ‘families have to look out for each other, right?’

  For more in the James Bishop series try

  Keep reading for an extract from

  ONE

  James Bishop put on his sunglasses and got out of the silver Toyota Camry. He didn’t say anything to the driver. There was no need. He shut the door, adjusted his leather jacket and checked his watch. 09.12. Then he turned and headed north along Main Street at a steady stroll. Neither fast nor slow. As though he had some specific destination in mind, but wasn’t in any rush to get there.

  Which was true enough to a point.

  It was a warm Tuesday. Warm for early May, anyway. The sun was out, but there was also a cool breeze to take the edge off. Good spring weather. Even better when you were experiencing it outside a prison cell. Almost nine months since Bishop had gotten out and the novelty of walking around in fresh, pristine air still hadn’t entirely worn off.

  Parked vehicles already lined both sides of the street, but Bishop saw little actual traffic. Scratching his beard, he looked around as he walked and counted six other pedestrians. The town of Louisford, here in eastern Pennsylvania, was still in the process of waking up. Most of the stores were either still closed or just opening. That was one of the things Bishop liked about small towns. That casual indifference towards scheduled hours.

  But there were also plenty of places that opened on time, day in, day out. Banks. Post offices. Franchise stores. Especially the franchise stores. They took customer care a little more seriously. Like the small Starbucks over there. Bishop could already see a small queue of people inside, waiting at the cash register for their morning caffeine fix.

  But it was a franchise of a different kind that Bishop was heading towards. The one situated at the end of the street about two hundred yards away.

  Bishop saw an elderly local coming his way, led by a black Labrador on a leash. The guy nodded a ‘good morning’ to Bishop, who smiled and nodded back. Once they’d passed each other, Bishop immediately lost the smile and carried on walking until he reached his destination seventy-two seconds later.

  The cheque-cashing store was one of hundreds operating under the Standard Star umbrella. Most offered cash advances, too, but Bishop knew Pennsylvania was one of fifteen states that had either outlawed payday loans or capped the excessive interest rates to such an extent that there was no profit in it. Which probably made the banks happy, at least.

  Bishop stood looking through the windows for two seconds before turning back to the street. Long enough for the interior to be imprinted on his mind in every detail.

  It was still the same.

  This branch had a row of four partitioned counters behind bullet-resistant glass and an ATM near the entrance. Closed circuit cameras in the ceiling covered each counter. A pair of customers – a bald, middle-aged guy and a young blonde woman – were being served at two of the counters. Following a rash of cheque-cashing store robberies over the past six months, the owners had obviously felt the need for a uniformed security guard, too. He’d been standing next to the ATM. Bishop figured late fifties. Overweight with a prominent pot belly. Probably a retired cop. Holstering an old service Walther 9mm and clearly bored beyond belief.

  Bishop used a hand to brush the dark hair away from his eyes and checked the street. Empty of traffic now. He looked at his watch again. 09.14. Time to go to work.

  He removed his sunglasses before pulling a pair of thin leather gloves from his pocket and slipping them on. As he reflected on how it had come down to this, he recalled a lesson that had been drilled into him more than once in the Marine Corps: that anybody’s life can turn on a single event. It was true. He’d experienced one of those events already, and wondered if he was about to again. If he did, he’d have nobody to blame but himself.

  Well, too late to worry about it now, he thought. Besides, I’ve got no other choice.

  Then he walked over to the entrance, pulled the door open and stepped inside.

  TWO

  Bishop paused just inside the door. The guard watched him and gave a welcoming nod. Public relations at work. You can wear a gun, but be nice to potential customers or you’re gone.

  Bishop walked over. He put a frown on his face as though he wanted to ask a question, but wasn’t sure whom to ask. The guard watched him approach. Once he’d closed the distance, Bishop turned so the cashiers couldn’t see, leaned in and pulled the .357 Smith & Wesson from his waistband. Jamming the five-inch barrel into the guard’s ample midsection, he said, ‘You know what this is, so don’t do anything dumb. They don’t pay you enough.’ At the same time, he used his right hand to unlatch the guard’s holster and pull out the Walther.

  ‘Hey,’ the guard said, wheezing. ‘Are you crazy? You can’t do this.’

  ‘I am doing it,’ Bishop said, sliding the magazine out one-handed and stuffing it in his pants pocket. He also ejected the chambered round and saw it land on the floor. ‘Relax and keep your voice down. A couple of minutes from now, this’ll all be over.’ After checking to make sure the guard carried no extra ammo, he placed the Walther back in the guy’s holster and said, ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘My name?’

  ‘Yeah, your first name. What is it?’

  The guard looked at him like he’d lost his mind, but Bishop noticed he’d stopped wheezing. ‘Randolph,’ he said.

  ‘Is that Randolph or Randy?’

  ‘It’s Randy to my friends. To jerks like you, it’s Randolph.’

  Bishop smiled. ‘Okay, Randolph. Now I figure you’re the one holds the keys to the front door, right?’ Bishop already knew this was so, but wanted Randolph to get in the habit of answering his questions. Simple psychology, but it made things easier in the long run.

  ‘Yeah,’ Randolph said.

  ‘Good. What say we go over and lock it so nobody else walks in. Right now.’

  Still keeping his back to the cashiers, Bishop walked slowly with Randolph to the entrance and watched him pull
a key chain from his utility belt. The guard picked a key, inserted it into the lock and turned it a hundred and eighty degrees clockwise. ‘It’s locked,’ he said.

  ‘Not that I don’t believe you,’ Bishop said, ‘but try pushing the door for me.’

  Randolph pressed a hand against the frame. The door didn’t move.

  ‘Good,’ Bishop said. He took the keys from the guard’s hand while he studied the street outside. Still empty except for the occasional vehicle passing by. ‘Okay, Randolph. Let’s go over to the counters now.’

  Randolph turned and Bishop stayed at his back as they walked towards the rear of the store. Bishop quickly stooped down to pick up the extra round he’d dropped as he passed. He didn’t want Randolph getting any ideas. When they were a couple of feet away from the counters, Bishop said, ‘Walk over to the first counter and just stand there.’

  He waited as Randolph did as he was told, watching the two cashiers’ faces. The woman serving the bald guy was the first to notice something was wrong. The eyes behind her glasses grew wide when she saw Bishop. She said something to her male colleague, who was in conversation with the woman customer. The man immediately stopped talking and stared at Bishop with his mouth open.

  ‘Okay, everybody,’ Bishop said. ‘Hands where I can see them. I’m here for the company’s money, not yours. So no heroics.’

  The two customers jumped at his voice and turned round. The blonde woman saw the cannon in his hand and took a sharp intake of breath. The bald guy said, ‘What? Hey, wait a minute. I ain’t even—’

  ‘Everybody relax,’ Bishop said, cutting him off. ‘This’ll soon be over and then you can all go back to your normal lives. But right now, I want you and you,’ and he pointed the gun briefly at the two customers, ‘to stand over there with Randolph and just be quiet. I’m calm right now, but if you play up I’ll get angry and you really don’t want that. And keep your cell phones in your pockets. They make me angry, too.’

  Bishop watched the woman nudge the man. Then they both shuffled to the left and stood next to Randolph a few feet away.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Randolph said. ‘Everything’ll be fine. Just do what he says.’

  The bald guy snorted and just looked at him. ‘You kidding me, Randy?’

  ‘No, he’s not,’ Bishop said. ‘Now shut up.’

  He stepped forward and faced the male cashier at the third window. Placing the revolver in plain sight on the counter, he glanced at his name badge and said, ‘You stay right there, John. Don’t move.’ He turned to the bespectacled woman, noted her name badge and said, ‘Leanne, I want every note in the place except singles. You’ll put them in a bag fast as you can and when you’re done you’ll pass it through to me. Got that?’

  Neither cashier moved. Neither of them said anything. Bishop knew they probably felt safe as houses behind the thick wall of glass. And that the only reason they weren’t running out the back was because of the two customers on this side. He also knew one of them had already triggered a silent alarm somewhere, but he’d planned for that.

  Bishop tapped the gun barrel against the glass and said, ‘Leanne, the only thing separating us right now is a three-quarter-inch thick layer of polycarbonate. You know why they call this glass bullet-resistant and not bullet-proof?’

  Leanne’s eyes were orbs. She swallowed and gave a small shake of her head.

  ‘It’s because they don’t want to get sued for false advertising.’ He tapped the glass with the barrel again. ‘Now this is a .357 Magnum loaded with light-grain, 125-gram hollow-points. And the main advantage of using a light-grain round is it travels a lot faster than a normal bullet. Fast enough to zip right through this glass like it was rice paper. I’ve seen it happen. Which means there really isn’t anything separating us at all. Randolph, I’m guessing you were a cop once. Convince Leanne I’m not making this up. I don’t want to have to give John here an extra eye to prove my point.’

  Randolph said, ‘He’s not making it up. Get the money.’

  Neither cashier moved. They were probably still in shock. Bishop needed to get things moving. He tapped the barrel against the glass again. ‘Three,’ he said.

  He paused. Tapped again. ‘Two.’

  Pause. Tap. ‘One.’

  John suddenly came out of his trance and said, ‘No, don’t. Please.’ He turned to Leanne. ‘Quick. Get him the money.’

  Bishop watched Leanne jump off her stool and look round the room. She knelt down, picked something off the floor and came back with a small canvas sack. Then she started rummaging around under the counter and sorting through notes.

  ‘When you finish here, Leanne, don’t forget to get the rest from the manager’s office out back. I’m sure he’ll help once you fill him in.’

  Leanne nodded as she worked and Bishop turned to look at the three in the corner. He ignored their stares and checked his watch. 09.17. It changed to 09.18. Then he heard the sound of sirens. Two vehicles, it sounded like. And not far away. Maybe three or four blocks at most.

  ‘Faster, Leanne,’ he said, and then heard the sound of a horn out front. He turned and saw the silver Toyota right outside. The driver, Sayles, was behind the wheel looking back at him, moving his head back and forth like a rooster. Then he looked behind as the sirens got louder. Sayles beeped the horn once more. He stared at Bishop for a long moment. Then he shook his head, revved the engine and just took off.

  Without expression, Bishop watched him disappear. Sayles was there, then he wasn’t. Just gone. Bishop allowed a long breath to escape from his lips.

  The sirens were getting much louder now. Probably already at the next block. Looked like from here on in he was on his own. Bishop stared at a spot on the floor for a moment and then at the three people in the corner.

  Well, not alone, exactly.

  He focused on the woman. Early twenties. Very pretty, if pale. Five-six, slim, with straight blond hair down to her shoulders and large blue eyes. Wearing a long-sleeved baseball shirt and jeans. Gold band on the third finger of her left hand.

  She must have felt his gaze on her. She turned her face from the direction of the sirens and stared at him. Bishop thought she looked plenty scared.

  ‘What’s your name?’ he asked.

  She paused. Swallowed. ‘Sonja Addison.’

  Bishop heard the screeching of tyres in the street outside and then the sirens cut out entirely. He turned and saw flashing red lights reflected in the store windows opposite, but that was all. Turning back to the girl, Bishop reached into his back pocket. He pulled out a set of nylon flex cuffs and said, ‘Okay, Sonja. Step over here.’

  THREE

  ‘Leave her the hell out of this,’ Randolph said, taking a step forward. ‘You want a hostage, take me instead.’

  Bishop raised the gun. ‘Real decent of you, Randolph, but you’d only slow me down. And you can stop too, Leanne. That money won’t help. Sonja, come over here now.’

  The girl looked up at Randolph, said, ‘Thank you, anyway,’ and then slowly walked towards Bishop. He thought she already looked resigned, as though she’d expected nothing less at this point.

  ‘You’re making a big mistake, pal,’ Randolph said. ‘That lady’s—’

  ‘Oh, my God,’ someone said at Bishop’s right.

  Bishop turned and saw a red-haired man entering the cashier’s room behind John and Leanne. He wore a short-sleeved shirt and tie and had a cell phone in his hand. Bishop knew this was the store manager. Probably come to see what all the noise outside was about. He was gaping at everybody in turn, but his gaze finished up at the gun in Bishop’s hand.

  ‘You missed all the fun,’ Bishop said. ‘But for now, lose that phone and keep your mouth shut like the rest of these good people. I don’t want to hear another word from anybody unless I ask a direct question.’ He waited as the guy placed the cell on the floor, then said, ‘Okay, Sonja, put one of these loops around your left wrist and pull the slack so it’s tight.’ He waited as she did as instruct
ed, then said, ‘All right, now put your other hand in the second loop.’

  Sonja slipped her right wrist through and Bishop put the gun in his waistband and used both hands to tighten it. But not too much. He let go and Sonja dropped both hands to her waist. Holding the gun again, Bishop turned to the counter she’d been standing against and saw a Mexican-style shoulder bag by the window.

  ‘You keep your car keys in there?’ he asked.

  Sonja nodded.

  Keeping his eyes on her, Bishop reached in and rummaged around. Then he pulled out a key ring with four keys attached to it. The worn leather fob had a Ford logo in the centre. ‘What model, how old and where’s it parked?’ he asked, tucking them in his pocket.

  ‘It’s a fifteen-year old Mustang,’ she said. Her soft voice only wavered a little. ‘Just out front and to the right. About four or five cars down.’

  Bishop nodded. He knew where it was. ‘All gassed up? Don’t lie.’

  ‘Tank’s three-quarters full, I think. Please don’t hurt me.’

  ‘I won’t if you do what I say,’ Bishop said. ‘Take these.’ He handed her Randolph’s keys. Then he turned her so she was facing the entrance. He put his right hand on her right shoulder and felt her flinch at the touch. His left hand pressed the barrel of the gun against her neck. Up close, he could smell the apple conditioner she’d used this morning.

  ‘Let’s go,’ he said. ‘Slow and easy, understand?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, and began walking slowly towards the front of the store.

  Crouching a little, Bishop matched her, step for step, until they reached the door. He looked through the glass and saw two white Crown Vics parked at angles in the middle of the street. One on either side of the store. Behind the one on the left he saw the heads and shoulders of two male deputies. One held a handgun aimed at the storefront, the other a twelve-gauge Mossberg pump.

  Bishop turned to his right. Two more behind the second car. Male and female. Similarly armed. The guy looked to be Bishop’s height. Six, six-one, maybe. Beefy, wearing a moustache. His partner was crouched behind the front fender. Dark-haired, from what he could see. Bishop guessed there’d be others covering the rear. And this was just the beginning. More would come. Further back, a number of people were lining the streets to watch the spectacle. Bishop waited as the cop with the moustache reached into the car, pulled out a bullhorn and brought it to his mouth.