He still didn't know why he was arrested. He hadn't been read his rights or even booked.
The doorknob rattled, and CJ honed in on it, listening as a key turned. Finally. He stood and took a few steps forward, blinking as the light from the hallway blinded him. The people who entered were silhouettes, and he squinted, trying to make out their faces.
“Detective Hamilton?” CJ didn't know whether to be relieved or worried. On one hand, he was familiar with Hamilton, but on the other, he didn't like the guy. “It's about time someone showed up to tell me what's going on.” He knew he'd blurted out too much when Hamilton's lips thinned. “Where the hell am I?”
“Shut-up and sit down, Sheridan.”
“I just want to know why I was arrested. I have that right.”
Hamilton turned to the person who'd entered with him. CJ followed his gaze. It was the same cop who had arrested him. Only he wasn't in a uniform anymore. “Please help Mr. Sheridan to sit down.”
The cop strode up to CJ and grabbed his bicep, shoving him towards the bench. “Sit your ass, down!”
CJ had no choice but to comply as he turned at the last second to avoid taking a header into the cement wall. Instead, his shoulder took the brunt of the impact. He fell on his side onto the bench and grunted when the edge of the bench caught him in the ribs. “What the hell? I just want some answers.”
“No. I'm the one who asks questions in here. Your job is to do what you're told and shut up unless you have the answer I'm looking for.”
“What do you want to know?” CJ wasn't about to cooperate, but he was curious.
Hamilton nodded. “That's more like it. Who are you working for?”
The question caught CJ by surprise. “Working for? I work at Mark Taylor Photography studios.”
Hamilton's mouth twisted into something that the detective probably thought was a smile. “Nice. Play innocent. We don't mind if you make us work for what we want.” Hamilton gestured to CJ. “Tom, I give you the honors of showing the young man the error of his ways.”
Confused, CJ glanced from Hamilton to the cop in time to see the blow to his stomach just before his breath whooshed out and he doubled-over, gagging. As he straightened, a second punch caught him to the left of the first, and this time, CJ dropped to his knees, almost falling onto his face and he tried to force his diaphragm to function again.
Tom grabbed CJ's bicep, and hauled him back to his feet.
Gasping, CJ tried to straighten. He didn't want to give either man the satisfaction by showing how much pain he was in. Ignoring Tom, he looked Hamilton directly in the eye. “Look, Detective. I swear to God, I have no idea what you're talking about. I work for Mark Taylor. You can check with him.”
Out of the corner of his eye he saw Tom's arm cock, and instinctively, CJ bent sideways and lifted his leg, snapping off a kick to the cop's midsection, knocking him into the wall with a satisfying thud. The satisfaction was fleeting as Tom recovered and charged CJ, crashing into him and sending them both into the opposite wall, with CJ taking the brunt of the impact on his shoulder, but the top of Tom's head caught him on the jaw, and CJ saw a flash of white. He slid down the wall until he was sitting, his shoulders still resting against the cinderblocks. He blinked and tried to clear his vision, but didn't see the kick that landed against his left ribs. The next few minutes were a blur of pain as a Tom planted his foot in CJ's stomach, side, chest and only Hamilton's sharp command for him to stop prevented him from landing a finishing blow on CJ's head.
Vaguely, he was aware of being dragged across the room and lifted onto the bench. He couldn't stifle the moan as he was hauled up, his back scraping against the wood. A moment later, his hands were un-cuffed, but before he could process that relief, his left arm was locked to a bolt in the wall. He squinted at the eyebolt. The fact that one was there—that they had gone to the trouble of embedding one in the cinderblocks—meant this wasn't an isolated event. He was not the first to be chained to the wall.
Even as he contemplated that, the cop locked shackles around CJ's ankles, then gave a vicious tug on them. “There. That'll keep you from kicking anyone.”
Sitting up, he looked down at the shackles and at his hand dangling inches below the bolt.
Hamilton approached, stopping a few feet in front of CJ. “Now, do you feel more inclined to answer my questions?”
CJ gaze darted from Hamilton to Tom. “I told you. I have no idea what you're talking about. I wish I did. I'd be more than happy to give you whatever information you want.” He hoped he sounded conciliatory.
Hamilton nodded. “Good. See, here’s the thing. We have evidence connecting you to the murder at the grocery store the other day, and now you're found at the scene of another murder today in the alley. We haven't been able to connect you to victims…yet. But we will.”
Stunned, CJ could only gape. Murders? Evidence? The guy had to be bluffing. “That's impossible. There is no evidence because I didn't kill either of those men. The guy in the car shot the man at the store, and this morning…” CJ shot a look at Tom, and nodded to him. “The officer shot him.” And to make it clear CJ wasn't accusing him of wrong doing, he added, “Maybe the guy pulled a gun on him or something. It was dark and I couldn't see very well.”
Hamilton stepped inches in front of the bench, towering over him, and CJ leaned back to put what little distance between them as he could. Tom flanked Hamilton, but farther to the right, making it impossible for CJ to keep both men in his vision at the same time.
Tom spoke, drawing CJ's eyes that way. “You're accusing me of murder?”
“No, that's not what I said. I'm sure it was self-defense.” He didn't believe for an instant it was self-defense, but there was no way he was going to admit that here and now.
Hamilton crossed his arms, nodding. “Good try, Sheridan, but that's not what the evidence shows. We have your gun, and I'm sure ballistics will prove that it was your gun that fired the bullet that killed one of our fellow officers. His body was found just a little while ago floating in the Chicago River, and we have security cameras right from the district he worked out of, that showed him entering the alley where you were apprehended.”
It only took a moment for CJ to fit the pieces together. They had taken advantage of his appearance at the planned murder site to frame him for the killing. “I didn't kill that man, and I want to speak to a lawyer.” Asking for a lawyer made it sound as if he was admitting to guilt, but he knew he had to ignore their pressure. He hadn't done anything wrong and they were simply pressing his buttons to get him confused. He had read about the tactics and no way was he going to fall for them. What he didn't mention was the fact that the murder victim was also a police officer. It didn't seem like they realized he knew that, and he wouldn't have known if it wasn't for the camera and his dream. Revealing his knowledge of the victim would make it sound like he had some kind of prior encounter with the slain officer.
“You need a lawyer because you have something to hide?”
CJ simply looked from Hamilton to Tom and then stared straight ahead. He was not going to take the dangled bait.
“I'm surprised you haven't asked to call your father. I would have thought you would have asked to whine to him by now.”
Don't bite. He repeated the two words over and over like a mantra. He couldn't give them an excuse to beat him anymore. He just had to survive.
Hamilton jabbed the point of his shoe against CJ's foot. “What? No response? Or has he given up on bailing you out of trouble? I know he got you out of a weapons charge a few months ago. I'm not certain how the hell he did that, but I've been keeping an eye on you ever since. And now, I have you here where your daddy can't find you.”
CJ blinked. What did Hamilton mean by can't find?
“Tom, did you know Sheridan here has powerful connections? His daddy is the SAC in the FBI, right here in Chicago.”
The other man shrugged. “I don't give a shit who his daddy is.”
Hamilton ch
uckled. “Neither do I. Besides, he doesn't have access to this facility.” He bent, his hands on his knees as he peered directly into CJ's face. “And on that note, I'll let you think about your situation here for a little bit longer, but be warned, I'm not a patient man. I want answers and I want them soon.”
* * *
Hamilton left the interrogation room and strode down the hallway. “He's lasting longer than I anticipated. We need a confession from him, and soon.” He stopped suddenly, causing Tom to nearly run into him. “It's on you if he doesn't confess.”
“I don't see why we need a confession at all. We have the gun and his prints on it, along with ballistics. It's air tight.”
“You would think, but this kid has connections like you wouldn't believe. I want as much as I can against him.” He crossed his arms, looking back toward the room. It had seemed perfect in theory. Sheridan being there had been like a gift. The original plan had been to dump Cruz's body in the river. He didn't care if the body was found, in fact, it would send a message if it was. The river would wash away most of the forensic evidence with the greatest risk in the first few days. After that, the body would be so decomposed, it would be extremely difficult to get anything definite from it.
When Tom had called him about Sheridan, at first Hamilton had been angry. What the fuck was up with this guy? He was always turning up where he wasn't supposed to be. But then he'd realized what a gift he'd been given. With Sheridan's odd history, and Hamilton's own documented encounters with him, he'd be a cinch to frame for Cruz's murder. The gun was the proverbial final nail in the coffin. Not only did they have the kid on the scene, he'd also brought the murder weapon with him, complete with his fingerprints.
His father would be a problem though. Hamilton hadn't figured out how to handle him yet, which was why a confession was imperative. It was pretty damn hard to argue against it, even for someone of SAC Sheridan's status.
Hamilton sighed. “I don't care what it takes, get me a confession, recorded on video, out of Sheridan. I want something irrefutable, so try not to injure his face too much. Can't have him covered in bruises on the tape. And best case, we have twenty-four hours. Any longer than that, and we'll have way too many people sniffing around.”
Tom nodded and didn't look at all upset at the prospect of extracting a confession. “You got it, boss.”
“Good, because Cruz was our last hurdle to completing the plan. The last speed bump on the highway.” Hamilton was proud of all he'd accomplished. In just weeks, the first shipment of prescription-grade drugs was due to arrive. Forget heroin and cocaine—there was a lot more money to be made with pain pills—prescription narcotics, but they were expensive and getting difficult to acquire in the U.S. It had caused a rise in heroin use as junkies looked for a cheap fix, but his pipeline from Mexico promised to deliver pills that they could sell for a huge profit even if they charged less than the going rate. It was a win-win for everyone. Well, except for Cruz and the other guy. Cruz had stumbled onto the plan by pure, dumb luck. Who knew the guy had family in the same tiny little village in Mexico? When he'd learned of it from some cousin, he'd come to Hamilton, concerned about the rumors he'd heard. He hadn't known details, or that Hamilton was running the show, but had vowed to dig. Hamilton smirked. He'd dug all right. He'd dug his own grave, only he never knew it.
Chapter Eight
Mark clicked the mouse, cleaning up some flyaway hair on one of the models from the beach shoot. Touching up images was part of the job, but one he didn't enjoy and he tried to keep it to a minimum whenever he could. Consequently, he was meticulous when on a shoot. The better the shot, the less editing he had to do. It was also a lot more fun to take photos than to sit clicking a mouse. He sighed as he cleaned up a few strands of hair that had stuck to the model's lip gloss. Somethings he couldn't control though, like the wind.
Right now, the detail work was just what he needed to keep him from worrying about CJ. Where was he? It wasn’t like him to not show up and Mark thought about calling Jim again, but that felt wrong. CJ wasn’t really a kid even though he seemed young to Mark. When he’d been CJ’s age, he’d just started his business and would have been pissed if someone had called his father to check up on him. Granted, the camera changed the equation somewhat, but still, he didn’t want to bother Jim about something that was probably nothing. Most likely, CJ was out with that nurse. That had to be it. But he could have called to let Mark know. It was just common courtesy. The last thought was what stuck with him. CJ was a lot of thing—bright, headstrong and impulsive at times, but he was raised right. The few times he’d missed work for a save, or even thought he might be late, he’d left Mark a message. This time, there had been nothing.
Mark tried to push if from his mind. It wasn't as if he was CJ's father. He wasn't even old enough to be his dad. But he worried anyway—like he would if he had a kid brother. Maybe it was the shared connection with the camera, but Mark and CJ had bonded fast over the last few months.
His cursor hovered over a stray lock of hair, when the image of the model faded, replaced by a vision of CJ in a dark room. In his visions, he always felt like he was right there in the room, as if he'd been teleported to the spot, but was unable to interact with anyone. His visions at times allowed him free rein to explore the surroundings, but this one didn't. It was less crisp than usual and he didn't know if it was just because of the darkness in the room, or if there was something preventing him from pulling the scene into focus.
CJ lay half on a bench, his left arm shackled to a ring bolted into the wall. His legs dangled off the bench, but they hung unnaturally, and Mark stepped closer and peered down. Shackles circled CJ's ankles.
He knew it was futile, but he had to try anyway. Maybe with CJ's own gift of seeing the future, he'd be able to sense Mark's presence. “CJ!” There was no response, but CJ did move, his free arm coming up to rub his ribs as he straightened, his feet dropping all the way to the floor. Mark took a close look at him. He had faint bruises on his face, but what concerned him was CJ's expression. His mouth tight, jaw clenched and lines around his eyes all broadcast his discomfort.
Mark scanned the room searching for a clue as to where the hell they were. Was CJ a hostage of some sort? And who had done this? Before he could clarify any details, the scene vanished and he found himself staring at the brilliant white smile of the swimsuit model on his computer screen.
After blinking a few times, Mark picked up the phone and dialed CJ's number. It rang until it went to voicemail. Mark started to leave a message, but changed his mind. If CJ was being held prisoner by someone, they could easily have his phone. He didn't want to clue whoever it could be onto anything. Instead, he hung up and called Jim. He bit back a curse when Jim's assistant said he was in a meeting and couldn't be disturbed. Mark left a message for Jim to call as soon as possible.
Frustrated, Mark stood and paced the studio. He really needed to finish editing the images, but he was unable to concentrate anymore on re-touching photos. The vision hadn't given him much to work with. He glanced over at the desk CJ used. Maybe there was something there that would help him figure it out. Even though CJ worked for him, Mark hated going through his work space. It felt wrong, but as he opened the first drawer of the desk, he hoped he'd find something. Pens, pencils, paper clips, and a pack of gum. Shit. He rummaged through the rest, finding nothing out of the ordinary.
He logged onto CJ's computer, first going to the email, then checking the history from when the kid surfed the web. Nothing. Frustrated, Mark saw the messenger client icon on the computer desktop. He felt like a first class snoop, but he had to look. It opened and he checked to see if there was a history of chats. Bingo. He didn't recognize the chat name of whoever CJ had messaged, but after a quick skim of a few messages, he sighed. It was just Blanche. It was nothing more than plans for dinner, and recaps of their days. When he scrolled back a few days, the messages become more personal, and Mark closed the message client. While the messages didn't
contain anything that would help him, it gave him the idea to call Blanche. What was her last name? He had to think a minute before he remembered it, then hoped she was listed in the phone book. He had just received the most current edition last month, so opened it up to H, and traced a finger down the columns until he found Harlow. There. Harlow, B.
He dialed the number. It rang seven times and he was about to hang-up, when Blanche answered, “Hello?”
“Hi, Blanche? This is Mark Taylor, CJ's…friend.” He didn't know whether to say boss or friend, but opted for the latter.
There was a brief hesitation. “Oh, hi, Mark. What's up?”
“Sorry to bother you, but I'm just wondering if you've spoken to CJ today?”
“Uh, no. Why?” She sounded perplexed.
Mark's stomach tightened. There went his hope that CJ was just spending time with his girlfriend. “When was the last time you heard from him?”
“He texted me last night. As far as I know, he was working earlier today. He said he'd call me sometime today to see if I wanted to do something after my shift, but he never called.”
“He didn't come to work today.”
“CJ didn't come to work? That's odd. He didn't say anything about missing work. I'm guessing you already tried him at home, or his cell?”
“I spoke to his dad earlier, and we thought maybe he was with you. And, I tried his cell.”
“No, sorry. He's not here and hasn't been here, and if he had been here for some reason, he'd have called to let you know. CJ would never just skip out on his work.”
Capture: A Crime Thriller (CJ Sheridan Thrillers Book 2) Page 7
