by S W Vaughn
He drove a full circuit around the outskirts of the neighborhood. There were two predominant features in the area — one a large, razed lot heaped with loose dirt where the doomed apartment building had stood, the other a partially constructed shell of a massive building. Both sites sported large billboard signs that read COMING SOON! with the same grinning face on them: Ronald ‘Ronnie’ Quinton, town mayor of Victory Falls and CEO of Quinton Developments, Ltd.
The sign at the partial construction announced a shopping center opening in six months. At the empty lot, the sign promised ‘affordable luxury condos’ and encouraged viewers to ‘apply now for limited space.’
As he circled north preparing to drive through the heart of the east side, he saw another big sign in a grassy field, also featuring Ronnie Quinton’s best-pal smile. Coming Soon: Victory Falls Country Club & Fine Dining. Play Where the Grass is Always Greener!
Seemed like the only thing up-and-coming around here was Mayor Quinton’s bankroll.
Jude turned onto the main street and drove slowly, past empty homes and dry lots, an old woman watching from a porch, a man rolling a refrigerator-laden dolly into the bed of a pickup. The buildings got closer together as he approached the inner neighborhood, and when he stopped at an all-way, he spotted a group of rough-looking guys hanging around the stoop of a tenement.
And the woman they were harassing as she tried to go inside with her young child.
He pulled through the intersection, parked across the street from the building and got out. No one over there paid attention to him as he approached the scene.
“Are you deaf, lady?” A muscle-bound man in jeans and boots, tank top and sunglasses, stood at the bottom of the shallow steps leading to the entrance, his arms stretched to either side and holding the railings. “I said the building’s closed. Means you can’t go in.”
The woman in front of him scooped up her child, a little boy maybe three or four years old. “I live here,” she said. “If you don’t move, I’m calling the police.”
“Hey, Lobo.” One of the others, a younger man in a black t-shirt with a bloody smiley face on it, stepped closer to the woman. “Maybe she could pay a tax or somethin’, huh?” Smiley Face snatched at her purse, and the woman gasped. “How much you got, lady?”
Lobo — the guy with the sunglasses, apparently the leader — leaned forward with a grin. “Nah. I got a better idea,” he said. “How ’bout you ditch the kid and we have a little fun?”
“You want to have some fun? Step over here a minute.”
Now Jude had their attention. Lobo looked past the woman to where he stood at the curb, and his eyebrows went up behind the shades. “We’re not interested in that kind of fun with you, buddy,” he said. “You just get on back in your car.”
The man nearest him, solid and bearded with a dark blue bandanna tied around his head, turned slightly and pounded a fist into his open palm. “What are you waitin’ for, an escort?” he said. “Get to walkin’, or I’m gonna escort my fist to your face.”
“I think I’ll stay.” Jude walked calmly through the bunch of them, straight toward the leader. The woman stepped aside hurriedly, staring wide-eyed at him. “Lobo, is it?” he said to the man blocking the stairs. “Tell you what. You let the lady through, and I won’t break both your arms.”
Lobo straightened, let go of the railing and stepped down. He took the sunglasses off and stared at Jude for a long minute.
Either the man was fast, or Jude wasn’t expecting a knee to the crotch. Probably both.
He managed not to gasp as he instinctively cupped his groin and dropped to a knee. At least the lady took this opportunity to squeeze past Lobo and run inside with her kid, slamming the door behind her. When the white flashes stopped dazzling across his vision, Jude gritted his teeth and made himself stand.
“I just wanted to find out if those balls were as big as you made ’em out to be,” Lobo said with a grin. “Guess not.”
“Yeah. Thanks,” he managed. “We done?”
“Not even close, buddy.”
He kind of figured that.
Smiley Face was at his flank, coming fast. He pivoted, grabbed the younger man’s arm and swung him into Lobo like a kid trying to break a piñata. The bigger man stumbled back but didn’t fall.
Two more were already on him. He dodged a blow, cracked someone’s jaw and caught a fist in the shoulder. Saw beard-and-bandana from the corner of his eye, drove his elbow back and broke the man’s nose.
He sidestepped a kick, grabbed an arm and pounded a tall drink of water in the gut a few times. The string bean folded, and he caught a glimpse of Smiley Face in his peripherals. Rushing him with a knife.
He whirled, snagged the outstretched arm and twisted. The kid howled. He twisted harder, and the switchblade clattered to the sidewalk.
That was when the gun went off.
“Enough.” Lobo glared at him across the end of a smoking .45. “Here’s the new deal. You get back in your car and I never see your face in this neighborhood again, I won’t kill you. And let me stress — this is a one-time offer.”
Jude raised his hands and took a step back. He could’ve disarmed the son of a bitch, but at least five of these assholes were still standing. And Lobo probably wasn’t the only one with a gun. “All right,” he said. If they weren’t going to fight fair, maybe he could play the accidental hero card, figure out why a gang like this was terrorizing people around here. “Look, man, I didn’t want any trouble. Me and the wife are looking to buy a house, and I just thought with all the places for sale around here—”
“Let me stop you right there, friend.” Lobo sneered at him. “You don’t want to move out here. It ain’t a nice place to raise a family, you feel me? We’re just trying to spread the message around. Get all these folks out of here.” He gestured with the gun. “Looks like today, we’re starting with you. So … bye-bye, buddy.”
“Okay. I’m going.” He moved back again, kept going until he felt the curb and stepped down to the street. Only then did he turn and hustle back to his car.
At least none of the thugs followed him to deliver any parting gifts.
Chapter 8
Special Agent Rich Lowenstein was about the only person currently employed by the CIA that Jude trusted to not track him down and try to coerce him back into the fold. He called Richie while his groin was still throbbing from the encounter with Lobo and company.
If nothing else, he planned to break that gang apart before he was through here.
Richie was amused and curious as hell about his request, but he didn’t ask too many questions. By three that afternoon, Jude was pulling back into the Providence Forge sheriff’s station after a road trip to Richmond. Where he’d managed to obtain the fastest private investigator license ever issued, complete with shiny new ID card, badge, and loaded Beretta with a concealed carry permit.
After nine years of service — technically going on fourteen, counting his time in the Marines — he figured the feds owed him that much.
When he walked in, Sheriff Singer stood behind the desk talking to Lisa Copeland. The sheriff looked up with a less-than-friendly expression that turned downright vicious when he caught sight of Jude. “We had an understanding, boy,” the old man growled. “What did I tell you this morning?”
“To come back with a badge.” He stopped in front of Lisa, pulled the black bifold from his pocket and tossed it open on the desk. “I’m back. Here’s my badge.”
“Goddamn it!” The sheriff snatched the ID case and glared at it like it’d just kicked his dog. “Private investigator. Effective today,” he said. “How the hell’d you get this so fast?”
He shrugged. “I made a phone call.”
“Course you did.” Sheriff Singer threw the bifold at him. Jude caught it neatly and tucked it back in place. “Come on, then, you little son of a bitch.”
The sheriff barged through door behind the desk without waiting. Jude followed, tossing a nod to Lisa on
the way.
“Well played,” she said.
“Thanks.”
Sheriff Singer led them past his closed office to the end of the hall, then right to a metal grate door about halfway down. He pulled the key ring from his belt, shuffled slowly through the keys and separated one, fitting it into the lock. “Look all you want,” he said as he unlocked the door. “But if any of my files go missing, I’ll throw your ass in a cell.”
“Understood.” Jude stepped back as the sheriff swung the door open with a grunt. “Hey, Sheriff,” he said. “You know anything about a gang harassing people on the east side in Victory Falls? Leader goes by the name Lobo.”
“Am I the goddamned Victory Falls sheriff? No. I’m the Providence Forge sheriff.” He moved aside and folded his arms. “Means I don’t give a damn until and unless they come down here and cause trouble. Like you are.”
“Yeah. Not your town, not your problem, right?” Jude shook his head and stepped into the narrow aisle behind the door. It was formed by a long row of metal shelving lined with cardboard magazine stands, each one stuffed with file folders. “Any idea where the reports on the fire are?” he said.
He expected either sarcasm or no response. Instead the sheriff said, “Everything’s arranged by date. Fire was five months back, so you’re probably looking for third unit down on the left, second or third shelf from the top.”
“Oh. Thanks.”
He must have failed to keep the surprise from his voice. “I’m a man of my word, Mr. Wyland,” he said. “Besides, I want that girl’s mind put to rest just as bad as you. All this crazy talk about substitute people and whatnot.”
“Mm-hm.” Jude was already moving down the row, counting units.
“Mr. Wyland.”
He looked over. “What?”
“You are trying to prove that Sherry Price is Sherry Price,” Singer said. “Aren’t you?”
“That’s the plan.” He already knew there was more to this than a long business trip and a sudden personality flip, and he suspected it had something to do with Ronnie Quinton’s east side ‘developments.’ But he wouldn’t share that with the sheriff.
After all, it was happening in Victory Falls.
“Fine. You just keep in mind that a private investigator license only gets you so far,” the sheriff said. “Leave the police work to the goddamned police.”
“You got it, Sheriff.”
Singer grumbled something under his breath and stalked away.
It didn’t take long to find the three cardboard boxes labeled MAGNOLIA EST. F04117-JVF. He pulled them off the shelf and continued down the narrow aisle, until it opened up on a round table and two chairs stuffed into a cramped space, walled in by more shelving. A fairly standard, if small, setup for a records room.
He took a seat and started with the most recent files. Arrest report, signoff on transport to the prison in Victory Falls, court dockets with sentencing information. Martin Lunn had been found guilty of a laundry list of crimes: one count first-degree arson, one count first-degree murder for the ex-Mrs. Lunn, fifteen counts of constructive manslaughter for the remaining deaths, ten counts of aggravated battery, one count criminal negligence, and they’d tacked on drunk and disorderly for good measure. Lunn was currently serving three consecutive life sentences plus ten to fifteen years with no possibility of parole.
Not surprising, considering nine kids had burned to death in that place.
According to the arrest report, the Victory Falls sheriff contacted the Providence Forge station after a witness described seeing Lunn arguing with his ex-wife outside the apartment building, not long before the fire broke out. Deputies Theodore Armstrong and Michael Clouser were dispatched to Lunn’s residence on Dogwood Drive, here in town. For some reason, they drove separate vehicles.
Teddy Armstrong was first to arrive. He claimed the front door was open, and when he went inside, he discovered Lunn blacked out on the floor of the living room and noticed ‘a strong smell of gasoline’ in the house. He arrested Lunn on the spot. Testing showed that the suspect’s blood alcohol content was 0.32 percent — a full four times the legal limit — and ‘significant amounts’ of gasoline were found on his hands, clothing, and shoes.
Lunn’s testimony amounted to ‘I don’t remember.’ He recalled fighting with his ex, and insisted that he must have driven home right after. He didn’t know why there was gasoline all over him. Figured he must’ve stopped at a gas station and spilled some.
The public defender with the unfortunate task of representing Lunn tried to get his sentence reduced to just life, on the grounds that he’d been mentally incapacitated. The ‘drunk asshole’ defense had cut zero ice with the jury, or the judge.
When he’d gotten through the ugly records of the aftermath, Jude started on the files pertaining to the fire itself. Most of them were photocopies, stamped at the top with VICTORY FALLS P.D. and a handwritten date on an inked line.
There were no copies of the ‘inconclusive’ report from Sherry Price, and there was nothing from the fire department investigator. Every report in the files came from the police.
He looked through the Victory Falls folders until he found the witness statements. There were two — both men, Elliot Duran and Tyrone Hale. Both said substantially the same thing. They’d seen Martin Lunn and Samantha, the ex-wife, screaming at each other on the sidewalk in front of the building. They recognized Lunn because ‘everybody knows Sammie’s ex.’ The fight lasted around twenty minutes, and then Lunn ‘followed Sammie into the building.’ Neither witness saw him leave. The fire broke out an hour later.
Behind the statements was a photocopied page with the witnesses’ licenses for identification. And Jude recognized them instantly.
Lobo and Smiley Face.
It was a hell of a coincidence, impossible to ignore. He needed to speak with Martin Lunn. But first, he’d pack up here and let Danica know he was officially on the case.
Whatever was going on, it was a lot bigger than even she’d suspected.
Chapter 9
Jude went back to the motel, showered and changed, and gathered a few things he’d need at the prison before he called the number Danica gave him when she dropped him off last night. She answered after three rings with a cautious, “Hello?”
“Danica, it’s Jude Wyland,” he said.
“Oh! Hey, Jude.” There was a measure of relief in her voice. “Your number showed up as Ho Chi Mihn City,” she said. “You’re … not really in Vietnam, are you?”
He smirked. “Nope. Still in Providence Forge.” The Saigon thing was an old inside joke between him and a few former CIA colleagues — and the caller data was one in a slew of safeguards and protections to keep him under the radar. “Listen, I’ve been looking into this thing with your aunt,” he said.
“Oh, God. I shouldn’t have said anything.” She gave an audible sigh. “You must really think I’m crazy now. I’m sorry. Even my mom says Sherry’s always been flaky, and she’s not surprised that—”
“Danica, I believe you.”
She went very quiet. Finally, she whispered, “What did you say?”
“You’re not crazy. Something is going on here.” He paused, trying to gauge the likelihood that anyone was listening to this conversation. Probably not, but better safe than sorry. “I have to go up to Victory Falls for a bit,” he said. “When I get back—”
“I’ll go with you.”
“No.” He didn’t even try to correct the sharpness of his tone. He’d already lost a partner, a seasoned CIA agent with as much training as he had. No way was he bringing a civilian into this. “I need to handle this,” he said. “But I want you to come to the motel when I get back, and I’ll fill you in on everything.”
After a beat, she said, “All right, fine. Can you at least tell me what changed your mind?”
“When I get back. I’ll call you.”
She agreed reluctantly, and they ended the call.
A nap would’ve been nice r
ight about now, but he wanted to keep moving as fast as possible. Depending on how deep this went, whoever was behind this — and he wasn’t ruling out a certain surly sheriff — might have realized someone was poking around and started taking anti-poking steps.
He stopped in front of the mirror behind the room’s small desk, straightened his tie, and headed out.
The county prison at the north edge of Victory Falls looked like just about every other prison. Concrete gray buildings, razor wire perimeter with plenty of spotlights, guard-patrolled towers. He parked in the visitor’s lot and made his way to administration, where he told them he was a lawyer with Project Justice, here to see Martin Lunn.
He’d created the lawyer cover years ago, complete with ID and active bar number. It had proven useful in several cases where the people he needed to interrogate were far more likely to be truthful with a lawyer than with law enforcement. In his former line of work, the badge wasn’t always the best answer.
Now, Samuel Kavanaugh waited at the checkpoint outside the visitor’s center while a prison guard whose badge read Ned Burgman ran his credentials through the computer.
“So, you’re up all the way from North Carolina,” Burgman said as he tapped something else into the computer.
“Yessir, that’s right. Just got in this morning.” Jude kept the drawl toned down slightly. Accents in the Carolinas were usually a touch mellow compared to the Tidewater speech patterns around here. “Fine town you’ve got here.”
“The finest.” Something beeped, and Burgman frowned and punched a key. “If you don’t mind my asking, Mr. Kavanaugh, what-all are you talking to Lunn about?”
“Not at all,” Jude said. “I believe I mentioned Project Justice? Well, we try to look into any case with unusually harsh sentencing. Often it’s death row cases, but in Mr. Lunn’s circumstances we believe the sentence may outweigh the crime.”
