Justice Returns: A Private Investigator Mystery Series (A Jake & Annie Lincoln Thriller Book 6)

by Rayven T. Hill

  Hank withdrew a note pad and a pen and jotted down some preliminary information—their names, time of occurrence, etcetera. The old woman sat quietly, barely moving, but watching intently.

  The customer made up her mind and she ambled to the counter with a jar of pickles. The detectives stood out of the way. The woman looked sideways at them as the proprietor rang in the purchase. She paid, gave them a last curious glance, and left the store.

  King stepped back up to the counter, rested his elbow on the glass, and asked, “Can you tell us about the person who robbed you? What did he look like?”

  The proprietor raised his hands, palms inward, and spread them wide. “Ugly. Big man. Big like mountain. No fat like sumo wrestler.” He pointed to a skinny bicep. “Big here. He have gun.”

  “What kind of gun?”

  The man looked blankly at King.

  “Long gun, like a rifle? Small gun? A pistol?”

  The man nodded vigorously. “Small. Small. In hand.”

  Hank pulled out his cell phone, did an image search, and came up with a variety of handguns. He scrolled through them as the storekeeper leaned in.

  Finally, the man said, “That it.”

  “A 38 Special,” King said.

  Hank frowned. “Like Spencer’s weapon.”

  King nodded. “But there’re a lot of them on the streets. It’s pretty popular.” He chuckled. “It wasn’t Spencer. No one would ever mistake him for a mountain.”

  The front door buzzed and a couple of young boys came in. The shopkeeper eyed them warily as they strode past and went to the rear of the store.

  The woman beckoned toward her husband. He leaned and she whispered something in his ear. When he stood upright, his face brightened. “Want video?” he asked.

  “You have a video recorder set up?” Hank asked.

  The proprietor pointed to the back of the store above an entranceway into the rear. “Camera.”

  King rolled his eyes at Hank. Hank disregarded his partner and smiled at the storekeeper. “We would like to see the video.”

  “I get,” the man said, and scurried to the back of the room. Hank glanced at the woman, her emotionless eyes moving back and forth between King and Hank.

  Finally, the man returned with a VHS tape and held it up. “Six hour. He on here somewhere.” He handed the tape to Hank and smiled widely. “You catch?”

  “We’ll catch him if he’s on there,” King said.

  “We’ll do our best,” Hank said.

  The young boys came to the counter, paid for two cans of soda, and opened them on their way out the door.

  “What time do you close up the store?” King asked.

  “No close. Need money. Son come soon and we go.” He paused and looked at Hank. “Can you leave policeman here?”

  “We can’t really do that,” Hank replied. “But I’ll make sure a car drives by the neighborhood and an officer will check in with you a few times throughout the night.”

  The storekeeper seemed satisfied with that. “Ok,” he said. “You catch bad man and we happy.”

  After a final assurance they would do all they could, the detectives left the store and drove back to the precinct where he dropped King off at his vehicle.

  Hank headed toward home. The robbery would have to wait until tomorrow. It was getting late and he was tired.

  He had a murderer to catch—a serial killer on the loose, and didn’t have a lot of time to chase down a hold-up man. Hopefully, the video would make quick work of this case and he could get back to what was most important—catching Jeremy Spencer.

  Chapter 33

  Thursday, 8:44 AM

  JEREMY SPENCER picked up the newspaper he’d bought the day before, sat at the table, and spread it out in front of him. Moe slouched on the couch, his big feet on the coffee table, watching television. Uriah was still asleep, having worked until midnight the day before.

  Jeremy glanced at the paper. He had found the Jackson Badger story on the front page; surely there must be more inside.

  He stopped on page 4, where a story caught his attention. A financial consultant, Mr. Wendell Hatfield, was accused by three different parties of fraud. According to the victims, Hatfield had taken their money, they’d never received the promised portfolio, and he refused to answer their calls. Police were investigating the allegations, but no charges were laid as of yet.

  The story filled Jeremy with righteous indignation—a burning anger. This was a man who deserved his attention. The problem was, he would have to go downtown—something he was not keen on doing.

  He leafed through the rest of the paper, but eventually returned to page 4 and studied the story further. The victims were all elderly, scammed out of their life savings. Worst of all, but something that suited Jeremy, the thief was still in business, likely even now in the process of stealing from other unsuspecting victims.

  It wasn’t hard to find the Hatfield Investments ad in the yellow pages, blatantly offering secure investments with a guaranteed return—something even Jeremy knew wasn’t possible. He jotted down the address on a scrap of paper and stuffed it into his shirt pocket.

  He dialed Hatfield’s number, told the receptionist he’d inherited a large sum of money recently, and would like Mr. Hatfield’s advice. The eager receptionist made him an appointment for 9:30.

  He folded up the paper neatly and turned to Moe. “I have to go out for a while. I want you to stay in the apartment. Do you understand?”

  Moe glanced at Jeremy and nodded sheepishly. “Ok.”

  Jeremy felt certain Moe learned his lesson the day before and the big lug would be fine without him.

  He stood and went to the hallway closet, rummaged around, and found an old satchel—something to make it look like he meant business. He pulled the long strap over his neck, letting the bag hang at his side, and then returned to the living room and approached the couch.

  Moe stood a moment to allow Jeremy to retrieve the pistol from under the cushion, and then sat back down, watching quietly as his friend checked the pistol, loaded in a couple of rounds, and put it carefully in the satchel.

  Jeremy picked the motorcycle keys up off the counter, stuffed his hat in his back pocket, pulled the helmet on, and made his way downstairs and around to the back of the building.

  The motorcycle started on the first kick. He checked the fuel gauge, then drove from the lot.

  Hatfield’s office was in a tiny storefront off the main street. He was in a relatively modern part of the downtown core, but far from the bustling financial district.

  Jeremy drove by the building, and then parked the bike one street over and walked back, keeping his hat low, and his head turned away from the occasional pedestrian.

  He stood in front of the store and looked up at a sign reading, “Hatfield Investments,” with a notice underneath guaranteeing secure investment consulting. Jeremy chuckled, knowing that sign would soon be replaced by a “For Rent” sign.

  He approached the front door, paused a moment, took a deep breath, and then went boldly in. The front area was barely big enough for a pair of chairs on one wall, and a desk on the other. Jeremy turned to the desk, where the receptionist had her head down, buried in a fashion magazine.

  “I have an appointment with Mr. Hatfield,” Jeremy said.

  She glanced up briefly, brushed back a stray strand of straw-colored hair, dropped the magazine face down on the desk, and then went to a door in the back of the room, opened it, and stuck her head in. Jeremy heard her say, “Mr. Black’s here to see you.”

  She pulled her head back and beckoned to him. “You can go right in,” she said, and then returned to her desk and picked up her magazine again.

  Jeremy pushed the half-opened door the rest of the way open and stepped into the room.

  A man rose from behind a desk, leaned over and held out his hand. “Welcome, Mr. Black,” he said.

  Jeremy shook the chubby hand and was waved toward a seat on the near side of the desk
. He sat down, swung his satchel in front of him, holding it in his lap, and glared at Hatfield.

  The thieving financial consultant was a little overweight and pushing fifty, most of his bulk hidden by an expensive suit, but rolls of fat showed where a snug, red tie choked his neck. His short dark hair was slicked back like a wise guy, without a touch of gray, obviously colored.

  Hatfield smiled, and Jeremy saw the evil in his face, his lying lips, and his deceitful eyes. If anyone ever needed killing, it was this slimeball in front of him. Jeremy couldn’t wait to pull the trigger, ending his pathetic life.

  “I understand you have some money to invest,” the vile man said, obviously eager to sink his teeth into Mr. Black’s inherited cash.

  “Yes, a fair sum,” Jeremy said politely.

  “You’re in luck,” Hatfield said, reaching to one side of his desk and picking up a sheet of paper. “I have an exclusive investment opportunity that was handed to me this morning.” He flipped the sheet over and squinted at it. “A guaranteed high yield.”

  “That’s exactly what I’m looking for,” Jeremy said.

  “Excellent. How much money are we talking?” Jeremy saw a greedy gleam in the con man’s eyes.

  “It’s all right here.” Jeremy reached into his satchel and tightened his hand around the pistol. He stood to his feet and moved in against the desk, removed the weapon and raised it, holding it twelve inches from the scumbag’s face.

  Hatfield took a sharp breath and raised his hands midway up, attempting to sink into the back of his cushy, leather chair. “I … I don’t have any money,” he whined.

  “Neither do I,” Jeremy said.

  “Then what do you want?”

  “I want you,” Jeremy said, as he pulled the trigger.

  Hatfield slumped forward and his head hit the desk with a thump, his arms dangling to the side, a fresh hole through his skull above the right brow. The back of the shiny leather chair was spattered with blood and brains.

  Immediately, a scream came from the doorway and Jeremy spun around. He expected the dizzy receptionist to do just that, and he was ready. His next shot hit Hatfield’s accomplice in the chest and she crumpled to the floor, landing on her back inside the room, to one side of the door. One more shot in the face, and it was over. His job was done.

  Time to go.

  He shoved the weapon into his satchel, and then ran through the reception area and out the front door, keeping his head turned away as he passed an old man on the sidewalk.

  He hurried to the motorcycle, another job well done, but this time he was doubly pleased. He’d gotten two at once.

  Chapter 34

  Thursday, 9:35 AM

  HANK DROPPED INTO his chair at the precinct and switched on his computer. He had a lot to do today, aching to make some headway on the Spencer case.

  He had gotten up early, and as soon as his first cup of coffee wiped the drowsiness away, he was on the phone with the local television station, as well as the two daily newspapers.

  Three stories of interest would be coming out in one morning paper, none in the other.

  A young woman was conditionally discharged after she was caught shoplifting some cosmetics. Her name and picture would be in the paper.

  There was to be a story on a known burglar released from a two year stint in prison, swore he’d gone straight, and now put in time at the local mission.

  The third story pertained to a mob boss who’d somehow managed to get off a long list of charges. Hank disregarded that one. Jeremy would never get close to him anyway. Hank knew exactly who the crime lord was, and he was always flanked by a pair of burly bodyguards.

  On the morning and noon news, the city’s only television station would also be running the story on the organized crime case, as well as a lengthy interview with the reformed burglar.

  None of the other stories involved thieves as far as he could tell.

  He’d made a call to the precinct and arranged to have a pair of undercover cops watching each of the potential victims until further notice. If Spencer targeted either of them, they’d have him.

  He’d also given Detective King a call to be sure he was on top of his assignment—to recheck Spencer’s known associates to see if he could come up with something. Surprisingly, King was already on it.

  And now, at the precinct, he sat in silence and watched his computer boot before getting up and going to Callaway’s desk. The computer whiz just came in, and Hank was anxious to see what he’d learned.

  “Morning, Callaway,” he said, pulling up an empty chair and sitting down. “Please tell me you found something on Lisa Krunk’s video.”

  Callaway looked up from his monitor. “Sorry Hank. I went over it meticulously, and came up with nothing.”

  Hank dropped his arms on the desk. “What about the tenants of the burned building? Any connection to Spencer there?”

  “Again, nothing, Hank. I was here until two in the morning. Dead ends all the way around.” Callaway sat back and shrugged. “If there’s any connection at all, I sure can’t find it.”

  “That leaves King,” Hank said. “He’s doing some canvassing this morning, and if he comes up blank…” He paused and shrugged. “Then I don’t know what our next move is.”

  Hank stood and went back to his desk. He still had the video tape from the convenience store robbery to go over. He’d better get on that this morning. Hopefully, they could ID the gunman and get the case wrapped up right away, but first, he had some calls to make.

  He spent the next half hour contacting all the local clinics, as well as the emergency center at the hospital, to see if anyone came in with a broken or sprained thumb. Another dead end. Hank hadn’t expected a positive result. By the look of the duct tape on the wrapping, Spencer probably wrapped it up himself.

  ~~*~~

  MRS. DORA QUAKER pulled the black shawl over her head and tied it snugly at her throat. She was in no mood for this, vivid memories of her husband’s funeral fresh in her head, but life goes on.

  Her husband always managed the money in the family, and she never held much interest in it. It took her a long time to figure out what was left after the funeral and other related expenses. It was a tidy sum, but at seventy-one years old, not enough to last her forever.

  She was excited when one of her friends told her of an investment opportunity. The woman recently committed her life savings to a guaranteed high-yield investment and was eager to share the news with Dora.

  With a name like Hatfield Investments, it sounded too good to be true, and she thanked her lucky stars.

  She tucked her checkbook into her handbag beside her reading glasses, plucked her cane from the coat rack, and hurried to the door. Mr. Hatfield’s lovely receptionist had set her up with an appointment for 10:30, and she didn’t dare be late.

  She struggled out the door and down the single flight of stairs to the sidewalk. It was slow going in her rheumatic condition, but she breathed in the fresh air, rested a few moments, and then hurried along as quickly as her painful joints would allow.

  Ten minutes later, she reached her destination and tugged at the door, finally able to open it enough to push it back and allow her to step inside before it closed again on her heels.

  No one was at the receptionist desk, so she took a seat, rested her cane on the chair beside her, and waited. After several minutes, she grew impatient, and called, “Hello?” She listened, then called again, “Hello? Is anyone here?”

  There was no answer and she sighed, sat back, clasped her hands in her lap, and hoped she hadn’t missed her opportunity.

  Five minutes later, she grabbed her cane, struggled to her feet, and hobbled to the open office door. She was indignant to see a man—surely it must be Mr. Hatfield—asleep at his desk. Dare she wake him? She’d come a long way.

  She stepped inside the office and froze at the sight of a body, a woman’s body, on the floor beside the doorway. And she wasn’t asleep. That hole in her head, and that blo
od soaking into the floor, could only mean one thing.

  She forgot the pain in her joints as she stumbled back to the receptionist desk, picked up the phone, and dialed 9-1-1.

  Chapter 35

  Thursday, 11:17 AM

  A CALL CAME in to 9-1-1 at 10:38 hours and RHPD dispatch was notified immediately. First responders were on the scene within minutes and the area was secured.

  Shortly later, the forensic van arrived and CSI began their painstaking job of examining the details at the scene—collecting, packaging, preserving, and logging forensic evidence.

  A crime scene photographer snapped shots of the bodies, blood spatters, and trace evidence, documenting the entire scene with photographs.

  The M.E. examined and detailed the state of the bodies and determined their identity.

  One thing was clear. The shooting of Wendell Hatfield was close-up and personal.

  Hank arrived at the office of Hatfield Investments and pulled up behind a police cruiser. A curious crowd was gathered outside the building, peppering an officer who guarded the door with questions.

  Hank greeted the cop and was let inside. He glanced around the outer office. It contained chairs, a desk, and not much else. An investigator was finishing up with some fingerprinting. He went into the inner office, took a quick glance around, and approached the M.E., Nancy Pietek, crouched beside the body of a female inside the office doorway.

  “Hey, Nancy,” he said.

  Nancy glanced up. “Morning, Hank.” She stood and turned to face the detective. “I’ve finished my preliminary examination of the bodies. Both appear to have been shot by a small or medium caliber weapon, one shot in the female from a distance, and one up close, the male from a few inches away.”

  “I assume the cause of death is a GSW in both cases,” Hank said.

  “It appears to be.” Nancy motioned toward the body at her feet. “The female was shot in the chest as well as in the face, entering below the nose. From the gunshot residue, the second shot appears to be from a distance of perhaps eighteen to twenty-four inches. The shooter also appeared to be standing directly over the body when he pulled the trigger. The bullet pierced the skull and embedded itself in the floor.”