The Devil's Snare: a Mystery Suspense Thriller (Derek Cole Suspense Thrillers Book 4)

by T Patrick Phelps

  As they passed the city sign of Utica, Derek turned down Genesee Street, looking for a diner. A few minutes after pulling onto the main street in Utica, Derek pulled his car into the parking lot of “Bev’s Place,” whose sign promised “Breakfast Served Twenty-Four Hours Per Day,” and “Best Coffee in the Mohawk Valley.” Despite the sign’s promise, Derek noticed the placard on the door listing the hours of operation.

  “Hard to serve breakfast twenty-four hours a day when the place is only opened from five in the morning to ten at night,” Derek said, opening the door and gesturing for Bo to head in first.

  “Maybe they don’t mean twenty-four hours in a row?” Bo laughed.

  The two were seated in a booth deep into an empty dining area. Derek ordered a pot of coffee and told the middle-aged waitress, whose hair was colored a shade of red not often seen in the world, to bring them whatever the largest breakfast special of the day was.

  “Two eggs, over hash, side of bacon, two pancakes and toast,” the waitress rattled off.

  “Good enough, but do us one more favor,” Derek said. “Wait ten minutes before sending the order back to the kitchen. I need to make some calls before we eat.”

  “Honey,” the waitress smiled, “I’ll give you as much time as you want.” She smiled again, then waddled her expansive backside towards the counter, where she then leaned forward and whispered something to another waitress. This waitress was much younger, thinner and had hair a more natural color of purple. The younger waitress craned her neck to look over the shoulder of the red-haired waitress, caught Derek’s eyes, then offered a seductive smile that Derek found both impossible to misread and flattering.

  After Red brought the coffee thermos and two mugs to the table, Derek grabbed Bo tightly, just above his left elbow. “I’m going to make two phone calls, maybe three. I am going to make those calls outside, but I’ll be standing in front of that window,” he said as he pointed to the window just behind and to the the right of where the two were sitting. “If I see you so much as get up and start walking, I’ll call Investigator Mullins, and tell him that I found you, got into a struggle with you and had to shoot you after you confessed to everything before running away. Is that clear?”

  “What if I have to pee?” Bo smirked.

  “You’re a big boy. Hold it.”

  After walking outside the diner and positioning himself so he could have a somewhat clear view of Bo, Derek removed his phone from his front pocket and saw he had missed three calls.

  “Damn,” he whispered. He checked the caller ID’s and blew a sigh of relief that one of the missed calls had not come from Nikkie. Fumbling his thumbs across the iPhone’s screen, Derek navigated to his voice mails, and listed to each of his three messages.

  The first was from John Mather. “Derek, this is John Mather from the fire department. Sorry it took me so long to get back to you. I still want to get together with you, so give me a call back.” Mather then rattled off his number and repeated his name, before ending the call. Derek jotted down the number in his Moleskine notebook and pressed the Save Message button.

  The next voice message was from Louis Randall. It was a short message, one clearly intended to convey a simple message. Derek didn’t need to save the message or write down any notes in order to get the intended message.

  “Cole, Louis Randall. I hear you lost track of my son. Nice job. Glad you’re on the case. A real private eye will be contacting you soon. Make sure you share whatever information you’ve dug up so far. Though, your team’s inability to keep one another safe and my son contained, leads me to seriously doubt you’ve come up with anything substantial. No need to call me back.”

  Derek felt a hot flash of anger pulsing through his veins. He was angry at Louis for the callous and obtuse manner which he delivered his repeated vote of “no confidence” in Derek, but he was also angry because nothing Louis had said was wrong. Crown was attacked, and he wasn’t there to protect her. Bo had given Nikkie the slip and was found several hours later, three sheets to the wind and talking about doing his best impersonation of the invisible man. And, while he could have easily come up with several legitimate excuses, Derek was no closer to finding anything that might exonerate his client than he was when he had first accepted the case.

  He knew that most cases follow the Eighty-Twenty Rule, meaning that eighty percent of a case is solved in twenty percent of the time involved. Eighty percent of all clues came from twenty percent of the people interviewed, spoken with or coincidentally run across. But Louis Randall only gave Derek and his team forty hours of paid time and the first twenty had expired already. He wasn’t concerned over spending however number of pro bono hours it may take before he could feel comfortable saying he’d done all he could, but once Crown was attacked, this case became personal. He was determined to stay in Ravenswood, whether Bo Randall was behind bars or siting in a bar, until he found out who attacked Crown, why she was attacked, and anything else about the town of Ravenswood that was connected, no matter how remotely, to Bo Randall and Victoria Crown.

  And if he could dig up information that caused Louis Randall an ulcer or a permanent case of the nervous runs, all the better.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Derek scrolled across his iPhone’s screen till he arrived at the phone app. He quickly dialed a number from memory and waited for his call to be answered. It took less than two full rings, which surprised Derek, since the person he was calling had a penchant for missing calls.

  “I didn’t think it would be too much longer before I got a call from you. I figured you must have been hired for another case by now and would be calling your old friend Ralph for help. How the heck are you, Derek?”

  Ralph Fox and Derek had met less than three years ago when Derek was hired to protect a family from their son who had killed three men and promised to add Derek’s clients to his list of victims. As was typical of many of Derek’s cases, that case took more twists and turns and ended with Derek being shot in the gut and Ralph Fox, the chief of police in the small Adirondack town the initial three murders had been committed in, saving the day and Derek in the process. The two had become friends and Ralph became Derek’s “go-to guy” when he needed information that only someone in law enforcement could access.

  Though the two had spoken relatively recently, Derek was still taken aback by how strong and out of place Ralph’s Texas accent sounded. “Ralph, it’s good to hear your voice again.”

  “Well,” Ralph said after pausing a beat, “I imagine it is, if I may be so pompous. I imagine it is. But, I know you well enough to know you didn’t call to check my health or to compare notes on the baseball standings, so, let’s hear it. What does a freelancing detective like yourself need from an old, broken down, retired cop like me?”

  “Retired?”

  Derek heard Ralph take a deep breath then release it in an exaggerated sigh. “People throw around the words that make sense to them. I say ‘retired’ while some of the townsfolk around here say, ‘fired.’ I think the award winning term is what the county legislatures use: They say Ralph Fox and the Town reached a ‘mutual agreement.’ What that means to me is I don’t have to worry about what to wear in the morning or how I’m gonna pay the rent. The ‘mutual’ part of that agreement worked out just fine for this old Texas boy.”

  “Damn, Ralph,” Derek said. “Not exactly sure what to say.”

  “Then don’t say anything,” Ralph snapped. “Except, tell me what you called me to say.”

  “I was going to ask if you could look up some information on someone for me, but…”

  “Then go ahead and ask,” Ralph interjected. “Don’t ever tell people what you were going to do. Going to do is the same as saying what you should have done or shouldn’t have done. Useless life stealers, them should haves and shouldn’t haves. They can make a person regret their entire lives if they’re not held in check. You’ll end up should-ing all over yourself, if you’re not careful.”

  “If
you’re retired,” Derek said, a bit taken aback by Ralph’s stern, almost accusatory tone, “I imagine you don’t have access to police records or any databases.”

  “Now that would be a true statement, Derek. But what you are overlooking, and which disturbs me, considering you call yourself a detective, is that while I may have hung up my handcuffs, there’s about fifty or so people I know very well who would trip over themselves to do me a favor.”

  Derek sensed something in the tone of Ralph’s voice: A vacancy, needing to be filled. He had only known Ralph for less than two years, but despite lacking years of familiarity, Derek could hear in Ralph’s voice an upsetting tone, the tone someone employs when they’re lost, lacking direction and silently, desperately, seeking an edit to their life’s meaning. He had no doubt that Ralph had friends and connections around the country in law enforcement, but fifty who would “trip over themselves” to help him? “I’m working a case not too far from your neck of the woods. Small town, south of Utica, called Ravenswood.”

  “Never heard of it, but, I’m still a newcomer to this area, despite having a New York State driver’s license for nearly three years.”

  “The case centers around one of my employee’s son who is accused of arson and double manslaughter.”

  “Boregard Randall,” Ralph said. “Father is a big wig lawyer in the Albany area. What I’m hearing is your employee’s son is as guilty as Cain and his Daddy doesn’t seem to be flexing his legal and financial muscles to do much more than to trim off a year or two off his son’s time in prison.”

  “I continue to be impressed with your ability to know about my cases before you even know I’m working them,” Derek said. “The way Louis Randall, my client’s father, is handling this case is exactly why I’m calling you,” Derek said. “The father is the one paying my fees, though he’s doing so under duress. From the second his son was arrested and accused, Louis has been angling for a plea and made it clear he wasn’t at all happy about me being on the case. He’s scared as hell—and practically said as much—that I and my associate will dig up something he doesn’t want dug up.”

  “And you want me to find out if Louis Randall, Esquire might have any skeletons buried in various places and, if he might, where those skeletons might be lying in wait.”

  “Exactly.” Derek paused an extended beat. “Think you can help me out?” Derek had asked Ralph’s help on several recent cases, and while he was always conscious of Ralph’s time and obligations, asking for his help this time felt different. Derek could only assume how Ralph was dealing with his forced retirement and Ralph was not the type to open up and tell anyone how he truly felt. If Ralph wasn’t dealing with his “retirement” as well as he was suggesting he was and if his departure from his chief of police position was more one-sided than what a “mutual understanding” implied, Derek asking for his help may upset Ralph if he was unable to provide the level of assistance that Ralph was accustomed to delivering.

  “Now that is a strange way to ask for help, Derek. A strange way.”

  “Why’s that?”

  Ralph said, “Now, I may no longer wear a badge and carry a department issued peacemaker on my hip, but those things weren’t what made me a cop. What made me a damn good cop, and what continues to make me a talented investigator, are my skills. And there ain’t no committee or assembly of so called ‘law makers’ that can take those away. You just stick that fancy phone in your pocket, go about your investigation and let old Ralphy do his magic behind the scenes.”

  Ralph ended the call without any additional discussion.

  The next number Derek called was scribbled on the back of one of his business cards buried in his back pocket. John Mather’s cell phone rang several times. Right before Derek figured he would have to leave John a message, his call was connected.

  “It’s John.”

  “John, it’s Derek Cole. We met this morning at the fire station.” Even as he said it, Derek had trouble believing all that had happened in just one day. He then shivered at the thought of what the balance of the day held in store.

  “How’s your friend doing?” John asked. “She was in serious trouble when we cleared the scene this morning.”

  Derek’s thoughts shot to Crown and a pang of guilt streaked across his body. “I should be there,” he thought. “No case is more important than friends.”

  “The doctors aren’t saying too much, other than she’s in critical condition. I…” Derek paused, “I haven’t seen her yet. My associate Nikkie, the one who found her in Bo’s house, is with her at the hospital.” For reasons unknown to him, Derek was concerned how his absence from Crown’s hospital bedside would make others think of him. Though Derek had tried to live his life according to his own verdict, still, there were times when what he imagined others thought about him, had more influence on his life-decisions than his own beliefs.

  “I’m hearing Bo is the main suspect in the attack,” John said, seemingly vacant of any judgement of Derek. “Damn, what the hell is going on with that guy?”

  “It wasn’t Bo,” Derek said. “He’s with me now and was getting drunk in a bar north of town during the attack. I’m taking him up to the hospital. After he sobers up, that is.”

  “Listen,” John said with a palpable sense of urgency flooding his voice, “now is not a great time to talk. There’s a cinema in Brookfield, about twenty minutes south of town. It’s the only one in town so you shouldn’t have any challenges finding it. They’re showing the new Star Wars movie at ten-thirty tonight. Meet me in the back row.”

  “The back row?” Derek questioned. “Should I wear something pretty?”

  “Funny. I go to shows at that theatre a lot and the late showings are usually shown to near empty theaters. We can talk there about what’s happening in Ravenswood and won’t be disturbed.”

  “Sounds a bit strange. Couldn’t we just meet at an out of the way bar? How about Route 69 instead?”

  John’s voice turned into a cutting, gravely whisper. “Listen Derek, there’s some seriously bad shit going on and the last thing I’m willing to do is let anyone know I’m talking with you. I’ve already heard your name mentioned around town from people you don’t want to know your name. Meet me at the movie or not at all.”

  “Ten-thirty,” Derek said. “I’ll be there.”

  “Good. And come alone. Don’t even think of bringing Bo or anyone else with you.”

  Derek stared at his phone for several seconds, making sense of John’s request. He decided that either John was the paranoid type or something bad, really bad, was happening in Ravenswood.

  ˇˇˇˇˇˇˇˇˇ

  The time on his iPhone was close to four in the afternoon when Derek made his final call. Nikkie answered on the first ring.

  “Where are you?” she asked. “Is Bo still with you or did he pull another Houdini act?”

  “He’s still with me. I’m getting some food in his gut; I’m hoping it sobers him up enough for him to show his face at the hospital.”

  There was a long, silent pause before Nikkie spoke again. “I think you better hurry, Derek. Hurry and get here.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Matt McCormick lived every one of his forty-three years on Cedar Street in Ravenswood. Forty-three years in the same room, in the same house, under the same roof. He wasn’t the only child of James and Lucy McCormick, but he was the only one of their four kids who didn’t leave home.

  He didn’t leave for college. Not for a job. Not for a woman. Not just to get away from small-town USA and from his, at times, overbearing parents.

  Matt went to the local community college, graduated third in his class of three hundred sixty-five, found a job in Syracuse working in his chosen field of information technology and reached an understanding with his father.

  “You move anywhere else in this town or in Syracuse, hell, even in Utica, and you’re looking at five hundred dollars plus utilities for a place decent enough to invite friends over. What I’m off
ering is four hundred dollars per month plus a hundred dollars extra for five years. The extra hundred will go towards the build out. I’ll convert the space over the garage, have a private entrance built, and make it feel like your own apartment. In exchange for the low rent, you agree to keep the lawn short in the summer and the driveway clear in the winter. When your mother and I go on vacation, you agree to stay close to home and watch over the place.”

  “And the dogs?” Matt asked. “What about the dogs?”

  “What about them?” his father asked. “Should go without saying. When we’re gone, you take care of the dogs. That’s what a good son should do without trying to use taking care of some damn dogs as a leverage point to negotiate rent down a couple of bucks.”

  Matt agreed to the terms. Why wouldn’t he? Though staying home meant a fifty minute drive, each way, to his job in Syracuse, he knew his dad was right. He’d checked out apartments in Syracuse and while he found several with rent lower than his father’s estimate of four hundred dollars per month, those either included a roommate (or two) or were in the south side of Syracuse, a place Matt didn’t want to live. Though Matt was pretty sure his older brother and two older sisters would claim that he was living down to their expectations, he didn’t care. His father always delivered on his deals, which meant Matt wouldn’t be living in the same room he once shared with his brother Dan, but would have his own apartment.

  But the room above the garage with the private entrance was never completed. True to his word, Matt’s father had paid his preferred contractor a downpayment of four thousand dollars to start the work, and the contractor had begun cleaning out the five hundred square-foot space above the garage. But when James and Lucy McCormick were killed in a car accident two weeks after Matt handed over the first four hundred dollar rent check, the contractor and the dreams of having his own apartment with a private entrance disappeared and left no trace.