Jeremy gasped. “My mother was killed two years later. I know she was. It wasn’t suicide like the police said.”
“If that’s true,” Conny said. “And he killed your mother, what about you?”
Jeremy shook his head. “I don’t know. I was seventeen and nobody tried to kill me. At least as far as I know nobody did.”
Conny sat back and crossed his arms. “It might all be a load of bollocks. Stories grow.”
“I believe it,” Jeremy said. “Mother would never kill herself. She surely wouldn’t.”
“That’s all I can tell you, lad. But a word of advice if you’re listening—you might be best to leave it alone.”
“I don’t think I can do that, sir … Conny.”
“It won’t do you much good in here if the killer’s outside.”
“I’m not planning on staying in here. No, I’m surely not.”
Conny laughed for the first time. “None of us are, lad. None of us are.”
Chapter 6
Tuesday, 10:02 AM
JAKE SAT IN the Firebird in front of the flower shop, his head back, his eyes closed. He was working on a plan, slowly forming it in his mind.
He sat up suddenly, slapped the steering wheel, and said out loud, “I think it might work.”
He got out of the vehicle, opened the trunk, and dug around in a small cardboard box. He removed a square metal case, about the size of a matchbox. He’d used this contraption once before, and it would perfectly fit his plan.
The device was a GPS tracker in a small waterproof magnetic container. It was motion-activated and only had to be switched on for its movements to be tracked in real-time from a web-based satellite map on his cell phone.
Last time he killed the battery in his phone while using the tracker, so he checked the power level in his cell. Lots of juice, freshly charged over-night. He dug in the box again, found a new battery for the tracker, and slipped it in, just in case.
He called Annie. When she answered, he said, “I need you to meet me at Richmond Park, right away. Are you busy?”
“Nothing that can’t wait,” Annie answered. “What’s this all about?”
“I’ll tell you when you get here. I have an idea that might work. Park on the street at the east side of the park near the hotdog vendor if you can find a spot.” He hung up the phone, hopped in the Firebird, and pulled from the lot.
The park was on the other side of town and Annie was already waiting, sitting in her car, when he arrived. He drove past her, circled the block three times at low speed, and then parked on the street, several spots from her vehicle. He flicked the switch on the GPS tracker, stuffed it under the passenger seat, and got out.
Annie was frowning when he climbed inside her car. “What’s going on? Why the big show?”
“Trying to attract a little attention.” He turned on his cell, opened the app for the tracker, and a small red dot appeared on a miniature map. He held the phone up for her to see. “That’s my car, and we’re going to wait for somebody to steal it.”
Annie squinted at the red dot. “You want somebody to steal your car? You’re very trusting.”
“If, as I suspect, they’re targeting muscle cars, and then reselling them, I don’t have much to worry about.” Jake grinned. “I’m pretty sure they’ll be careful with it.”
“We may be in for a long wait.”
“I don’t think so. If they’re going to steal it at all, it’ll be right away. If it were spotted, why would they wait? Classic muscle cars are getting rare and they won’t pass up an opportunity like this.”
It took longer than Jake expected, but his assumption proved to be correct. Less than half an hour later, they watched as a man sauntered down the street from the corner. He stopped beside the Firebird, looked casually around, and then went to the driver side door.
Jake kept a close eye through a small pair of binoculars as the would-be thief pulled a flat, metal bar from under his jacket and wedged it between the car’s window and the rubber seal.
“He’s using a slim jim,” Jake said.
“I’ll never doubt you again.”
Jake chuckled. “Yeah, until the next time.”
Annie swatted him on the shoulder. “I’m serious.”
“So am I.”
Jake lowered the binoculars. “He’s in now,” he announced. “We’ll wait until he’s gone and follow him.”
Less than a minute later, the Firebird moved from the curb, idled to the intersection, and turned right.
“Let’s go,” Jake said.
Annie started the Escort and pulled out while Jake followed the moving red dot on his cell. “Keep well back,” he said. “Don’t let him see you and we’ll use the tracker to keep tabs on him.”
The route took several turns and a few minutes later they entered the industrial part of town.
“It stopped,” Jake said, pointing ahead. “Take a right up there.”
Annie turned where Jake indicated and drove slowly past warehouses and industrial units.
“It looks like he’s in that building,” Jake said, looking out his side window and pointing. “There must be a vehicle door around behind.” He motioned toward the curb. “Pull over up there.”
Annie spun the wheel and eased to the side of the street. “Are you going in there?” she asked, as Jake opened his door.
“Just to be sure we have the right place.”
Jake stepped from the car and walked cautiously toward the building. He hugged the wall as he made his way along the side toward the back of the unit. When he reached the rear he stopped and peered around the corner. A couple of late model cars occupied slots behind the building. There was a large overhead door dead center in the back of the unit.
He needed to see what was behind that door but there were no windows.
The GPS unit wasn’t entirely accurate, but his gut told him this was the right place. If he was a cop he could show his badge and he would have probable cause to enter the unit.
He wasn’t a cop, but he knew one. Detective Hank Corning was head of the RHPD Robbery/Homicide unit, and car theft would fit nicely into that category.
He stepped back, pulled out his phone, and dialed. “Hank,” he said, when the detective answered. “I have a bust for you.” He filled him in quickly with a short version of the story.
Ten minutes later two cruisers eased up the driveway and spun around behind the building, one at each end of the lot, cutting off access. Four uniformed cops hopped out and approached the building, their hands on their weapons.
Jake watched while an officer banged on the man door and shouted, “RHPD. Open the door.”
There was no answer and the door didn’t open.
Jake sprinted toward the front of the building. Hank’s car was pulled up to the curb, and he now stood beside the front door of the unit, his weapon drawn. Jake stayed back and watched while the door burst open and two men ran out.
“Police! Stop,” Hank ordered, stepping into view of the suspects, his weapon raised.
One man stopped short and put his hands up. The other looked around frantically then ran toward the street. Jake leaped forward. He was twenty feet from the runner and gaining. It was the guy who stole his Firebird.
The man looked over his shoulder at Jake and spun across the street. The runner was no match for Jake’s long, powerful legs, and as his quarry hopped a hedge, Jake grabbed his foot and held on. The man hit the ground hard, head first, and Jake dragged him back over the hedge, depositing him face down on the sidewalk.
“You’re under arrest,” Jake said.
The man attempted to rise but Jake’s foot knocked him to his back. The thief scowled up at his captor.
Jake rolled him over, twisted his arms behind his back, and pulled him to his feet. Annie was out of the vehicle, approaching slowly. Jake waved at her and grinned as he prodded his captive across the street.
Hank’s prisoner was already cuffed and was being loading into another c
ruiser that had pulled up in front. A uniformed cop stepped from the vehicle and took control of Jake’s prisoner, cuffed him, read him his rights, and bundled him into the back seat.
Hank was now entering the front door, his gun drawn. Jake followed behind and together they eased through the office area into a large room at the back of the unit.
There didn’t appear to be any more suspects inside, and as Hank checked a couple of smaller cubicles off the main room, Jake stood and gazed around, his mouth open.
Along with his Firebird, there were three Mercedes, a BMW, and at the far side of the room, a gorgeous, black 1969 Plymouth Barracuda.
Chapter 7
Tuesday, 10:53 AM
JEREMY SPENCER was observant, always watching, always planning, and it finally paid off. His plan was perfected. Sure, there were a few unknowns, but he would tackle those when the time came.
Timing was important to his plan—timing and a bit of luck. The countdown was about to begin.
“Let’s go, Spencer.”
When the guard approached his opened cell door Jeremy knew the routine. He went to the doorway, held out his hands, and waited while the hack snapped the cuffs on him. They always cuffed him when they took him to the ding wing. That was an unfortunate routine, and one he needed to overcome.
His earlier request for an extra session with the shrink was granted. The dumb twit was eager to rehabilitate him, and Jeremy had the stupid fool believing her patient was making progress.
Oh, he was making progress all right. Progress that was starting now.
Jeremy led the way, the hack following, through clanging doors, down concrete hallways, until finally, at the other end of the building, he stopped in front of the final door.
A sign on the metal portal read, “Dr. Laurine Thicke, Prison Psychiatrist.”
The hack tapped on the door, then opened it and prodded the prisoner inside. Jeremy glanced back as the guard stepped back out and closed the door. He would be keeping watch outside.
Dr. Thicke rose from her desk, her stern body a silhouette in front of the barred window. She moved out from behind her desk and motioned toward a stiff, leather couch. Jeremy sat on the edge and watched the doctor sit, straight-backed, in an easy chair opposite him. She crossed her bony legs at the ankles and clasped her hands in her lap. Her dress was funeral black, well below her knees, and buttoned up to her throat. She stared at him through tight eyes, reminding him of a teacher he once knew. He didn’t like her either.
The shrink spoke in a husky, emotionless voice. “How’re we today, Jeremy?”
We? Jeremy knew he was doing fine, excited, and eager to get started, but he didn’t know how she was—except she was about to die.
He leaned forward and reached out his arms, his hands palms up, the chain hanging loosely between his wrists. “I’d be doing better without these handcuffs,” he said. He didn’t care about the cuffs and his comment was carefully calculated, every minute detail taken into account. His seemingly innocent action served to bring his hands that much closer to her throat.
She opened her mouth to speak and that’s as far as she got. He sprang from the couch, leaped into her lap, and in the same motion, wrapped the cuffs around her lily-white throat, cutting off her words or any screams she might attempt.
Her feet kicked uselessly and her hand struggled to reach the alarm button on the table beside her. He tugged the chain tighter, intertwined his fingers behind her head, and held on.
She soon stopped struggling, her once flailing arms now hanging limp, the breath gone from her body, her windpipe crushed.
He removed the chain and stepped back. He didn’t have time to admire his work. The session was scheduled to last an hour and he had more important things to do.
He tiptoed to the door. There was a lock on the inside, like the kind you find on a bathroom door. He spun the cylinder. It wasn’t much but if the guard tried to come in when the hour passed, it would keep him busy a short while longer. Every second may count.
He hurried to the desk and pulled open the top drawer, removing a single key. He knew it was there because he’d seen her put it there on one occasion.
He spun around and tugged at the cord for the window blind, putting all of his weight into it. It finally snapped and he rolled up the cord, about five feet long, and stuffed it into his pocket.
He crossed to the side of the room and unlocked a door leading into an adjoining room. Several sessions ago, she wasn’t ready when he arrived, and she came from this room, locking the door behind her. He didn’t know what was in there, but he knew where it went.
It was a storage room. Rows of file folders stuck out of upright slots, name tags visible. His file was likely in there somewhere—he didn’t care. What he did care about was what else he knew was there.
The exercise yard ran along half the length of the outside of the building. From that yard, he’d previously explored, observed, and planned, and from this end of the area, though a good fifty feet away, he could make out the barred window behind dear Dr. Thicke’s desk, twenty feet above the ground. What he also saw, ten feet further on, was another window, a window with no bars, facing the razor-wire fence. As close as he could estimate, the area below the window couldn’t be seen from the guard tower.
He hurried to the far end of the storage room. It was Doctor Thicke’s private washroom. He pulled open the door and there it was. Freedom. Well, not quite—there was still a small window in front of him, about 15 x 15 inches, that didn’t open. He was expecting that.
He stood on the toilet and peeked through the window. There were two rows of fences encircling the prison with twenty feet between. This end of the building served as part of the barrier, making the first fence unnecessary. That meant there was only one obstacle between him and the outside world.
And a drop of twenty feet.
And a window.
But first, the part he was dreading most. He’d never attempted this before, but he knew it’d been done. He laid his left hand on the floor, its back downward, and curled in his thumb. Then he gritted his teeth and brought his foot down onto his thumb as hard as he could.
It only resulted in more pain than he thought possible and he bit his lip to keep from crying out. He took a deep breath and tried again. He felt a snap. His thumb was dislocated, and the pain was almost unbearable as he drew his left hand through the handcuff.
He forced the thumb back into the joint—more excruciating pain—but he could wiggle it. Barely. He knew it was damaged and would have to be taken care of soon, and though he was in a lot of pain, at least his hands were free.
He estimated he had at least forty minutes left.
He turned his gaze to the window. He couldn’t break it; that would draw attention. He stood on the seat, gripped the free end of the handcuffs in his right hand, and worked at the caulking and rubber seal that held the window in place. He kept at his task diligently. His shoulder ached, his fingers were getting sore, and his left hand hurt like the dickens. Still, he persisted, and in ten minutes the pane was loosened enough to work the glass out of place.
He lifted it out carefully and set it upright on the floor by the toilet, then dashed back to the outer room, pulled the two big cushions from the couch, and hurried back to the washroom.
He bent the cushions to squeeze them through the window, but one at a time, he got them through and dropped them carefully on the ground twenty feet below. Perfect.
He stood on the tank of the toilet and eased himself up, head first, into the window. It was a tight squeeze, and for once, he was thankful for his small size.
He let go, aimed for the cushions, and dropped. He landed on a cushion with his right shoulder, bounced, and hit the hardened ground, banging his head.
His mind whirled, his senses dimmed, and blackness overtook him. Just twenty feet from freedom, he fell into an unconscious sleep.
Chapter 8
Tuesday, 11:29 AM
JEREMY AWOKE with a sta
rt. It took a few moments before his senses returned and he realized where he was.
His head hurt and he saw stars when he tried to stand. He lay still, staring upwards toward the opened window, waiting for his head to clear.
He didn’t know how long he was out. He didn’t have a watch, but as yet, he was undiscovered. His nasty fall was not anticipated but was one of the unforeseen circumstances that couldn’t be avoided.
Assuming he wasn’t unconscious for more than a few minutes, he still might make it. He needed to hurry.
He kicked off his canvas shoes and stuffed them into the pockets of his orange jumpsuit. He unzipped the office cushions, removed the sturdy foam inside, folded the covers neatly, and waited.
Another of the unforeseen involved the guards in the tower overlooking the yard. They couldn’t see him from where he waited, but once he made a dash for the fence, he would be within their view.
He was depending on an unknown. It was yard time, and prisoners would be milling about. There was always a throwdown or two, without fail, and that always drew the guards’ attention until the scuffle could be broken up. He’d watched the guards’ actions and reactions many times.
He lay low and crept forward until he could see the yard but not the tower. His anxiety was deepening; he was running out of time, when finally, he heard shouting coming from the far end of the yard. It was a throwdown.
He grabbed one of the foam inserts and the leather covers and dashed toward the fence. This was the crucial part.
With the bulky foam under one arm, the leather under the other, he began to climb the fourteen-foot tall chain link fence. His toes dug into the gaps in the links, his fingers into others. He disregarded the throbbing pain in his thumb and continued to climb.
Justice Returns: A Private Investigator Mystery Series (A Jake & Annie Lincoln Thriller Book 6) Page 3
