by Tim Kizer
Congratulations, Detective Murphy. Your guess proved correct. Patrick Flynn had followed Hackett into the restroom, bludgeoned him, and then took him out of the club ("Is everything all right, Sir?”—“Oh yeah, everything’s fine. My friend just had a little too much to drink.”). After dumping Jeff in Milton, Flynn had headed to his house to score more stuff. Flynn thought he’d hit a gold mine, instead he’d gotten a bullet in his chest.
“Why didn't you go home?”
“Have you heard about Jake Hester?”
“The mobster? Is he extorting money from you?”
“He tried. Twenty grand a month. But we refused to pay. They said we were going to regret it.”
“So you concluded it was his guys who attacked you?”
“What else was I supposed to think? Has anyone ever extorted money from you? It’s not a pleasant experience. You get really paranoid, you know.”
“Did you see the face of the person who hit you on the head?”
“No, I didn’t. He approached me from behind.”
“You believe it was a man?”
“It was either a man or a very strong woman.”
Murphy opened his notepad and began writing down Jeff’s story. “Did you go to the doctor?”
“No. My head was okay. Nothing got broken.”
“Did they beat you up?”
“No. I found no bruises or anything like that.”
“Why do you think Hester did it? To scare you?”
“Yes. And I have to tell you—it worked.”
Miranda pulled Patrick Flynn’s photo out of her jacket pocket and showed it to Hackett. “Do you know this man?”
“No, I’ve never seen him before,” Hackett said after examining the picture.
“It was his body that we found in your house.”
“As I said, I’ve never seen this guy.”
“Well... I have bad news and bad news for you. First, I believe someone is trying to kill you. And I don’t think it’s Hester. Second, we are out of clues. Our investigation’s hit the dead end.”
“Why not Hester?”
“He wants your money not your life. For now, at least.”
“Then who is it?”
“I hope to find that out sooner if you help me. What are you planning to do next?”
“Am I supposed to do something?”
“You can’t stay in your house, Jeff. You have to move to another location. I could arrange police protection for you if you’d like.”
Hackett shook his head. “I can handle it on my own. I guess I’ll leave Massachusetts for a while.”
“Let’s keep in touch, okay?”
“I’m going to call you every day. I hope you catch this scumbag.”
“I’d like to show you something. Can we meet tomorrow?”
“Sure. Give me the time and place, and I’ll be there.”
8.
“Do you recognize these DVDs?” Miranda asked after spreading the DVDs found in Hackett’s house on the desk. They were in a room in a cheap motel twenty miles south of Boston, which didn’t require its guests to provide a credit card or ID. Jeff had rented the room yesterday and intended to stay here one more night.
Hackett picked up of the DVDs and scrutinized its cover. “Orgy Boys,” he murmured the DVD’s title. He opened the box and looked at the disc inside it. Then he cracked a smile and said, “It’s a gay porn movie.”
“That’s correct.”
“No, I don't recognize them.”
“You can be completely honest with me, Jeff. If you’re gay, you don’t have to hide it from me.”
“Why are you saying this to me?”
“We found these DVDs in your house.”
“So you think these are mine?” Hackett laughed. “No, I’m not gay and I’ve never owned a gay porn DVD in my life. I don’t want to sound like a homophobe, but this,” he waved at the DVD, “looks... Well, it’s not my cup of tea, let me put it this way.”
“So that’s your final answer?”
“Yes. You do know I have a girlfriend, right? Of course you do—you talked to her.”
“I had a hunch the DVDs weren’t yours. They didn’t have your fingerprints on them. Actually, there were no fingerprints on them at all; both the boxes and the discs were wiped clean. Do you have any ideas about how these DVDs found themselves in your house?”
“No clue.”
“Does Gabi have keys to your place?”
“No, she doesn’t.”
“Could she have brought these DVDs to your house?”
“Why would she?”
“I had to ask just in case.”
“Maybe they belong to the killer.”
“I think so, too. I suspect the killer left them in your house.”
“Why do you think he did that?”
“He probably tried to send us down the wrong trail. He made it look as if the killer was a gay guy or some bloodthirsty homophobe. The interesting thing is that Flynn had anal sex shortly before his death.”
“Did the killer rape him?” Hackett frowned.
“Maybe he did. Or maybe he simply shoved a dildo up his ass after he shot him. I’ll ask him about it when I catch him.”
Then Miranda showed Hackett Mister Paranoid’s photos—with the beard and moustache and without them.
“Do you know him?”
Hackett spent half a minute studying the picture and said, “No, I don’t.”
Miranda told him about the meeting with Mister Paranoid and the events preceding it. “He knows you, although not very well,” she said.
Hackett looked at the pictures once again and shook his head. “No, I’ve never seen this guy.”
Miranda slipped the photos back into her jacket pocket and asked, “Do you have any thoughts on why someone would want to kill you?”
“No. I spent the whole night racking my brain over this, but nothing came to mind.”
“Let's start with the motive. Could it be revenge? Some people will kill you just for looking at them the wrong way.”
“I doubt I have enemies that would go that far to get even with me. I try not to step on any toes.”
“Jealousy?”
“I don’t think so.”
“What about money? That’s the last biggie left.”
“Yes, it probably has to do with money. But I can’t imagine who would benefit from my death. I’ve never owed or lent to anybody more than a thousand bucks. And I have no fortune that could be inherited.”
“Were you a witness to any crime before Flynn got murdered?”
“No. If I witnessed something, I didn’t know it was a crime.”
“Did you blackmail anybody? I don’t mean to offend you, Jeff. I have to ask this question.”
“Absolutely not. I believe in karma, Miranda. I don’t engage in that type of stuff.”
“Okay. Good to know.” Miranda glanced at her notepad. “Have you warned your girlfriend to keep silent about you showing up?”
“Yes, I have. I hope you’re not going to tell anyone either.”
“I’ll keep my mouth shut, I promise. I can’t solve this case if you’re dead. Did you decide where you’re going to stay?”
“I found a house a few miles from Providence. It’s a month-to-month lease. I’ll stay there for the time being.”
“Are you using your own name to lease it?”
“Of course not. I’m not as dumb as I might seem.” Hackett laughed.
Chapter 4
1.
The next morning Miranda had an unexpected meeting. Dillon called to inform her that he was in Miami and wouldn’t be able to chat with her in person this week because of the business deal he’d been working on. Then he said he had asked his very good friend Monica Staggs to meet the detective and discuss the case.
“She’s on her way to see you,” he said.
Monica Staggs showed up in Miranda's office half an hour after Dillon’s call. She was a dazzling long-legged brunette in her late twenties or ea
rly thirties who used make-up sparingly.
“My name is Monica,” she said, shaking Miranda’s hand. “I’m Marshall Dillon’s friend.”
She must have been a really good friend of Dillon's: Miranda remembered seeing her picture on the America Discount Tires CEO’s desk.
“Pleasure to meet you, Miss Staggs.”
Monica smiled. “Marshall instructed me to talk to you about the investigation. He would meet you personally if he wasn’t terribly busy, I hope you can forgive him. You know, I’m glad he sent me here. I don’t get out of the house very much. I’m not a big partier.” She flashed another radiant smile.
“So you’d like to talk about the investigation?” Miranda said.
“Yes, right, let’s cut to the chase. We would much appreciate it if you could get us up to date on your investigation. Marshall is very worried that his son’s life is in danger. Do you have any theories or clues?” Monica took a recorder out of her purse. “I don’t trust my memory, so I’m going to use this if you don’t mind.” She switched the recorder on.
“We’ve made certain progress. Now we know that someone’s trying to murder Mister Dillon’s son.”
“Murder Jeff? This is horrible!” Monica frowned. “Do you have any suspects?”
“We’re working on it.”
“Why do they want to kill him?”
“We’re working on it, too.
“Oh my God! Do you think Jeff is okay?”
“I believe he’s still alive.”
Monica heaved a deep sigh. “I’m shocked. I simply don’t know what to say. Do you have any clues yet?”
“Yes, we have a couple.”
“What do we do now? How are we going to find Jeff? We must find Mister Dillon’s son before those people get to him.” Monica gave Miranda a pleading gaze. “Are you looking for Jeff?”
“Yes, we’re doing our best to find him. But as you remember, Jeff said he was going to lie low.”
“If you find Jeff, please tell him his father wants to talk to him. Marshall asked me to let you know that it’s extremely important. Extremely important.” Monica paused. “Now I understand why Marshall’s been in such a bad mood lately.”
“Does Mister Dillon have any information that could help the investigation?”
Monica shrugged her shoulders.
“He only tells me what he deems necessary to say. I’m only a woman, after all. How smart can my advice be?” She giggled. Then she turned off the recorder and rose from the chair. “It was a pleasure meeting you, Miranda. If you have any questions for me or if you find any new information about Jeff, please give me a call.” She handed Miranda her business card.
When Monica left, Miranda called Jeff Hackett and told him she was going to visit him in Pawtucket. Jeff promised to wait for the detective.
So, Marshall Dillon was dying to talk to his son. Was it because he knew something about the people who were after Hackett? This theory was worth testing, which meant Jeff had to speak to his father.
2.
“Dad is a decent person,” Hackett said. “I’m not upset with him because he doesn’t spend a lot of time with me. My Dad never had parents. He was a foundling, he lived in an orphanage till he turned eighteen, so I don’t blame him for not knowing what a proper childhood is like and what a good father ought to do. It could have been worse, that’s how I see it. Seven years ago he went to Europe on vacation and took me with him. He was already wealthy then. I still remember that trip.” Hackett smiled. “Four days before we were supposed to go back to the States, we went to Monte Carlo and my father got blind drunk and trashed the bar. We got arrested and had to spend the night in jail. We were lucky to avoid prison. Dad shelled out a lot of money in damages, fines, and attorney fees. He doesn't like to remember this incident, perhaps because he’s not really a drinker.”
Hackett pulled a cigarette out of the pack and lit it up. “Did Flynn have my wallet on him?”
Miranda nodded. “It was in his jeans pocket. You can have it back when the case if closed.”
“Please keep it.”
“So what did you decide? Are you going to meet your father?”
“If you think he knows something... I guess I’ll call him first.”
“When do you plan to call him?”
“Do you know when he’s coming back to Boston?”
“I could find that out if you want.”
“Please tell Dad I’ll give him a call when he’s back in Boston.”
“Okay.” Miranda stood up. “Where’s the restroom here?”
Hackett gave the detective directions to the restroom and offered to walk her there. Murphy refused the offer.
She quickly found the restroom, which was near the stairs to the second floor.
Did she have any new ideas? Not yet, but she was hoping she’d come up with something after Jeff spoke with Dillon.
Miranda heard Hackett walking to the stairs and then climbing the steps to the second floor.
This guy was not in an enviable position for sure. Knowing that someone was itching to kill you (someone with resources, mind you) was quite unpleasant.
By the way, why was Mister Paranoid not calling? It had been two days already, a long enough time, considering it was literally a matter of life and death. Or Mister Paranoid stopped caring about Jeff Hackett’s fate?
Miranda zipped up her jeans and reached for the toilet flush handle.
Steps again. Hackett was walking to the stairs again. But come to think of it—had he heard Jeff go downstairs to the first floor? No, Jeff had not descended from the second floor yet, the detective was sure of it. Not to toot her own horn, but Miranda Murphy had excellent hearing. Hackett hadn’t come down yet, which meant it wasn’t him approaching the stairs.
Someone was going upstairs now.
Miranda turned to the door, opened it a crack, and peeked outside.
Or maybe Hackett had returned to the first floor, and he had simply missed it, notwithstanding his excellent hearing?
Miranda grabbed the handle of her pistol sitting in the holster, sneaked out of the restroom, and headed briskly for the stairs.
Let’s see if Detective Murphy was getting hard of hearing.
With the gun in his hand, Miranda walked up to the stairs and confirmed that there was nothing wrong with her hearing. Aiming the pistol at the strange guy in dark blue jeans and a grey T-shirt, who stood on the top landing, she said in a loud voice, “Hi, partner. Are you looking for something?”
The stranger’s reaction to her question was pretty extravagant (however, from a certain point of view, his actions were more than logical). Upon hearing Miranda’s voice, the guy turned around sharply and shot four bullets at the detective from his gun, which had a silencer attached to its barrel. One shot turned out more or less successful—the slug hit Miranda in the left upper arm. There would have been more good shots if the detective hadn’t dodged to the right just in time.
Gritting her teeth—not because of pain but out of anger— Miranda plunged forward and fired at the man twice. Or rather the spot where she’d seen him last; when Miranda stopped pulling the trigger, she found out that the guy had fled the landing.
“Jeff, run! Jump out the window!” Miranda yelled. She rushed upstairs, holding her Glock in front of her. “Get out of here now!”
Hackett was lucky there were no bars on the windows of this house. He was lucky to have a cop around at the right time.
“Get out of the house, Jeff!” Miranda shouted again, scanning the hallway.
Where the hell had the intruder gone?
A loud clap broke the silence. A gunshot? It appeared that the hitman had found Jeff. Another loud clap followed.
Miranda barged into the room where the claps had originated and swiftly ducked when he saw the man point the gun at her. There was a muffled bang, and then Miranda heard the bullet shatter the mirror that hung on the wall in the hallway.
The window was wide open. Jeff might have used
it to leave the house.
Miranda fired her pistol in response and sprang back. From the corner of her eye, she noticed the upper half of her left jacket sleeve turned dark crimson with blood. Then there was a thud, which indicated something heavy had fallen to a floor. Miranda looked inside the room cautiously and saw the intruder getting up, with his left hand on the wounded knee. However, the man hadn’t dropped his gun. Miranda dashed towards the hitman, aiming her Glock at his right shoulder.
“Drop your weapon!” she yelled. It took the detective a second to cover the distance between her and the guy in jeans. Once Miranda found herself face to face with the man, she kicked the gun out of his hand and struck him on the head with the butt of her pistol.
3.
“I have a feeling we’ve got to get out of here ASAP,” Miranda told Hackett when he came back to the house. “This guy’s buddies might show up.”
After Miranda had slapped handcuffs on his wrists, they placed the hitman, who was still unconscious, on the back seat of the detective’s car.
“Do you recognize this guy?” Miranda asked as she pulled away from the curb.
“I’ve never seen him before.” Hackett took a deep breath. “Did he kill Flynn?”
“It’s possible.”
But it was also possible that this man had nothing to do with Flynn’s death. In the end, this scumbag was not the only killer for hire in America.
Miranda looked back to check how the hitman was doing. The man was still silent and motionless. Miranda thought melancholically that she’d have to wash the blood off the back seat later.
“Is he alive?” Hackett asked.
“I didn’t hit him too hard. He’ll wake up in fifteen minutes.”
“How did he find the house?”
“That’s a mystery to me. Did you tell your new address to any of your friends?”
“No, nobody knows I’m staying there.”
“Even Gabi?”
“Even she. Where are we going now?”
“Pawtucket police department. It’s only a few miles away from here.” Miranda glanced at the rear view mirror to check if they were being followed. The road behind them was clear. “Are you still using your old cellphone number?”
“No. I haven’t used it since that guy hit me on the head.”
