Father Figure (A Jaxon Jennings' Detective Mystery Thriller Series, Book 3)

by Richard C. Hale

Though the adult in him wanted to know what was so important for his father to keep secret all those years, the child in him was relieved. And the child seemed a bit more dominant that day. It didn’t want to know.

  And the child won. His father remained silent, the look passing between them that the knowledge would be passed along another day. It would wait.

  Only his father died before Jaxon learned the secret.

  And the child in him felt relief, the adult, guilt. His father had needed to confess and had been denied. Maybe that had been for the best.

  When Jaxon had gotten the news his father had passed in the night, it had been a shock. The doctors had been optimistic and his prognosis, good. They felt the cancer would not take his life, only time would, and he should have a few more years left on this earth. So, for him to suddenly go, his wife thinking him tired and needing to sleep in, Jaxon felt dismay and confusion and even disbelief that his time had really come.

  He questioned everything and everybody and never quite got the answers that would satisfy him. Something bothered him at the back of his mind and though it kept resurfacing, he pushed it away, thinking that it was just the regret of his adult side in never learning what his father had seemed so intent on sharing. So, he let it go.

  Or so he thought. Those questions were back and they were becoming sore and oozing, like a festering splinter. He wanted answers and he was going to get them.

  A knock on the car window jolted him out of his thoughts. He thumbed the automatic opener and the window slid down with a quiet whirring.

  “They want you inside,” the patrolman said.

  Jaxon nodded and shook Ray awake. “Come on. They need us inside.”

  Ray shook his head and then slapped himself in the face.

  “Damn. I was sleeping like the dead.”

  “You look like death.”

  Ray turned and grinned. “I was shot.”

  “You were shot at.”

  “I’ve got a wound.”

  “A splinter,” Jaxon corrected. “And you pulled it out.”

  “It was concrete.”

  “I know. A concrete splinter.”

  Ray opened the door and got out. “You weren’t injured,” he argued.

  “I sprained my pinky.”

  “Give me a raise and I’ll get you a bottle of Crown too.”

  “After your probationary period is up.”

  “When’s that?”

  “Five years.”

  “From now or from my start date? Never mind. It doesn’t really matter.”

  They stepped through the front door and were directed to a back room in the house. The dog had been tranquilized and removed, the animal control team long gone, but the odor of urine and wet dog clung in the air.

  The house was just as you’d expect considering the condition of the structure. As Jaxon’s eyes adjusted to the darkness he saw one tattered and stained couch in the front room with a T.V. on a shelf made of cinder blocks, and a coffee table that looked as if it had never seen an ashtray or coaster in its life. The carpet was tan to gray and had a huge dark brown stain under the coffee table that could have been blood. Ancient blood.

  They passed through the kitchen, the smell of decay and trash permeating the room, and walked down a small hallway to the back room. Besides the bathroom, it was the only other room in the house they hadn’t seen. Evidence technicians were gathering what looked like crayons into baggies and tagging them with numbers in red ink.

  Tate and Laurelyn were there inspecting a low table with some kind of lab equipment set up and three or four L.P. gas tanks underneath. They wore rubber gloves. It smelled like wax in the room.

  “Jaxon. Ray. Thought you’d like to see this,” Tate said and waved them over.

  They crowded into the small room and pressed up against Tate and Laurelyn by the table. Ray didn’t seem to mind, but Jaxon was uncomfortable in tight quarters.

  “Crayons,” Tate said, pointing to the equipment, then the baggies.

  “I see that,” Jaxon said, unimpressed. “Did they have kids?”

  “It’s a drug,” Ray said.

  “Your partner is right,” Laurelyn said, glancing at Ray. “It’s a new synthetic drug and since it’s easily manufactured in small labs with materials you can get at any store, it’s growing in popularity.”

  Jaxon looked behind Tate into the closet and noticed stacks of sixty-four count crayon boxes lined up in colorful rows. Tate glanced behind him.

  “They call them crayons because they come in sticks about the same length and diameter, and they disguise them with crayon wrappers and sharpen the ends.”

  “I’m surprised I haven’t heard of it,” Jaxon said.

  “I’m not. I’m actually surprised Ray has,” Tate said, looking at him.

  “I ran into a lab in the ‘Glades,” Ray said. “Learned about it then.”

  Tate nodded.

  “How is it administered?” Jaxon asked.

  “They eat it,” Laurelyn said.

  Jaxon picked up one of the colored sticks and sniffed it. It smelled exactly like a crayon.

  Waxy.

  “Wash your hands before you eat,” she said.

  “It’s that powerful?”

  She nodded. “It only takes a small amount. That’s the problem with it. Too much and they experience graphic and terrifying hallucinations.”

  “Sounds fun.”

  “Some seem to think so.”

  “How much does it go for?” Ray asked.

  “It’s expensive,” Tate said. “The rich kids are the main users. Comparable to cocaine but cheaper to make.”

  “There’s a lot here,” Jaxon said, looking around.

  “That’s why we brought you in here. There’s more here than this small lab can manufacture,” Tate said. “A lot more.”

  “A big lab?” Jaxon asked.

  “We think so. Big enough to supply more than Jacksonville. It’s hard to guess with this lab, but we think there might be an operation here in town that’s supplying the whole southeast.”

  “Any large crayon shipments cross your desks?” Ray joked.

  “You kid,” Tate said, “but that’s exactly what we’re looking for. They buy the crayons, use the wrappers to disguise the drug and stick them back in the crayon box to ship. Pretty innocent looking.”

  “Slick,” Jaxon said.

  “Keep your ears open. You might hear something before we do,” Tate said.

  “Will do. Anything on Mason?”

  “One bullet to the head,” Laurelyn said. “The body was carried out into the yard and dumped. The only thing that does not smell of professional hit is the shot to the forehead.”

  “Maybe the shooter wanted the guy to know who was killing him,” Jaxon suggested.

  “Vengeance?” Laurelyn asked.

  Jaxon shrugged. “I’ve seen it before. Killer says ‘Look me in the eye, asshole’ and pulls the trigger. Guy dies with his killer as the last vision.”

  Jaxon could see her thinking about it but she made no further comment.

  “What about the sniper?” Tate asked. “Why have him waiting for you?”

  “I was hoping you would have something for me on that. I don’t know.”

  “The Jacksonville guys have patrolmen questioning neighbors here and over near the house he was on, but so far no one has offered anything.”

  “This neighborhood, they won’t talk.”

  “You’re probably right.”

  Jaxon glanced at his watch. “Think we’re done here?”

  “Yeah. You’re done. In a hurry?”

  “Hungry,” Jaxon said.

  “Bar-B-Que, right?” Tate said.

  “Ribs,” Jaxon said. “Babyback ribs.”

  “Pulled pork sandwich,” Ray said.

  Tate shook his head, but grinned. “Get out of here.”

  On the way out, Ray glanced in Laurelyn’s direction and she followed him with her eyes. She saw Jaxon watching and looked away.
Something was definitely brewing.

  Chapter 8

  They didn’t eat Bar-B-Que. They didn’t even grab a snack and Ray was grumpy about it.

  “I’m starving, Jaxon. What the hell are we doing?”

  “We need to see somebody first.”

  “It can’t wait?”

  “No.”

  Ray sighed but drove on anyway.

  They were headed for the south side of Jacksonville, to another neighborhood that was not conducive to family life and left little room for well-to-do homes and fancy cars. If Jaxon had to guess, he was sure it was even worse than Edgewood.

  “Another great place,” Ray said. “Is Jacksonville all drug neighborhoods?”

  “No. But they have their share of the trade. This is a city of almost a million people. Comes with the territory.”

  “You sure it’s not just the rednecks?”

  “The rednecks are on our side.”

  “Doesn’t seem that way to me.”

  “That’s because you don’t know any rednecks.”

  “I know two.”

  “There you go.”

  They drove in silence and pulled up to a Laundromat that looked to have been built before the coin operated washing machines were even invented. It seemed deserted except for a lone figure leaning up against the yellowed, glass window, sucking on a toothpick. The guy looked like a stiff breeze would blow him over. Jaxon knew different.

  Stepping from the car, Jaxon nodded at the man and approached looking left and right. He wasn’t worried about the neighborhood he just didn’t want to interfere in the man’s trade. He needed to keep his trust.

  “Jaxon,” the man said, his voice a deep, gravely baritone that didn’t fit his physical attributes. He grinned with one corner of his mouth.

  “Papa,” Jaxon said. “How’re things?”

  “Good. Better than they’ve ever been, actually. As long as you don’t scare people away it should stay that way.”

  “We won’t be but a minute.”

  Papa looked Ray’s way and appraised him with a watery eye that Jaxon knew was much more alert than appearances betrayed.

  “Who’s this?”

  “He’s with me.”

  “I can see that.” Papa leaned forward and stood up straighter. “Don’t like him.”

  “He’s all right,” Jaxon said. “You just don’t know him.”

  “I don’t want to know him,” Papa said and looked him up and down again.

  “I’m Ray.” He stuck out his hand.

  “Get him the fuck out of here,” Papa said.

  Ray stood there with his hand sticking out and when he realized the man wasn’t going to accept it, he lowered it slowly.

  “I need him here, Papa. It’s important.”

  Papa glanced back at Jaxon, then at Ray and seemed to relax slightly. He leaned back against the glass.

  “Don’t like him.”

  “He probably doesn’t like you either,” Jaxon said. “But that doesn’t mean we can’t cooperate with each other.”

  Papa said nothing. He pulled the toothpick from his mouth and slipped it into his pocket.

  “What’s up?”

  “Crayons,” Jaxon said.

  Papa eyed him suspiciously and then grinned ever so slightly.

  “Crayons,” he repeated.

  “Tell me.”

  Papa held out a dirty palm and Jaxon sighed. He pulled a roll of bills from his pocket and peeled off a twenty. He put it in Papa’s palm. It slipped into his pocket with a practiced hand and disappeared before Jaxon could blink.

  “What you want to know?”

  “Who’s the man?”

  Papa chuckled. “I don’t know.”

  “We have a trust, Papa. I want to keep it. But you have to share sometimes. I’m sure you know.”

  “Not for one measly Jackson, I don’t.”

  He put his palm out and waited.

  Jaxon peeled off three more and put them in his hand. They disappeared quickly.

  “I don’t know the man,” he said, “but I know where it’s made.”

  “How do you get the stuff?”

  “I don’t.”

  Jaxon grinned. “You mean to tell me you’re not into the biggest action in the city at the moment?”

  Papa frowned. “What do you take me for? That stuff is shit. Have you seen what it does?”

  Jaxon shook his head.

  “Fucking kids jump off buildings and shit. I seen one prick stand in front of a train with his arms stretched out like he was some superhero or something. Thought he could stop the train with his bare hands. Nothing but a fucking mess left afterwards to clean up.”

  “Lots of money to be made,” Jaxon suggested.

  “Not interested.”

  “I doubt that.”

  “Look. I told you what I do. You don’t believe me, that’s your shit. Whiny, punk-ass, rich kids anyway. That’s all who’s buying it.”

  Jaxon believed him.

  “All right. Tell me what you know.”

  Jaxon peeled another twenty off and slipped it to him without Papa asking. The man nodded.

  “Warehouse on Eighth Street. Just down from the hospital.”

  “The old tire manufacturing plant?”

  Papa nodded.

  “It’s a condemned dump.”

  “It was. Been very busy lately.”

  “How do you know? If you’re not into it, how do you know?”

  “I listen. The punks talk and I listen. You know that.”

  Jaxon nodded. “Anything else?”

  Papa leaned closer and looked both ways before he spoke.

  “The Man is a bad-ass. I don’t know who it is, but he’s not to be messed with. That’s the word.”

  “How bad can he be?”

  “I heard he peeled a man’s skin right from his body. Man was still alive. At least for a while.”

  Yeah. That was bad. Jaxon eyed Papa and the man held his gaze.

  “Now, get out of here,” Papa said. “You’re scaring my customers.”

  “You stay healthy,” Jaxon said.

  Papa chuckled. “I’m the healthiest guy around here.”

  “I believe you,” Jaxon said and turned to go.

  Ray waved and Papa flipped him off. Jaxon hid his smile.

  * * *

  “You know, I understand we were just messing around with Tate and Laurelyn about the Bar-B-Que, but damn, Jaxon, I’m hungry. When the hell are we going to eat?”

  Ray drove north on I-95 toward downtown and was doing the speed limit. Jaxon kept looking at the speedometer and then looking at Ray. He couldn’t believe that a human being could actually drive any slower than Ray was driving.

  “The faster you get us there the sooner we eat,” Jaxon said and nodded his head at the dashboard.

  “I don’t speed.”

  “We just got passed by a scooter. Actually, it was an old lady on a scooter. Those things are only rated for like 45 MPH.”

  “Good thing too. Imagine what would happen if little old ladies on scooters were speeding.”

  Jaxon threw up his hands and tried not to pay attention to how slow they were going.

  “Why are we going there anyway?” Ray asked. “This should be something the police deal with.”

  “I need to see.”

  “What do all these drugs have to do with our murder? You think Mary Beth was a drug dealer?”

  “No. But her boyfriend was.”

  “I thought this was a crime of passion. A woman cheating on her husband gets the wrong end of the stick. Benjamin had her killed. You don’t see that?”

  “He has a solid alibi.”

  “He hired somebody to kill them. Those two masked guys were pros.”

  “Somebody hired them all right,” Jaxon said. “But I don’t think it was because she was screwing the help.”

  Jaxon watched Ray work it out. The jilted lover was a convenience for the killers, and a nice touch, but Jaxon was betti
ng there was something else going on and they were just scratching the surface.

  They exited I-95 at Eighth Street and pulled through the fence at the old tire plant.

  The place was deserted. Jaxon really didn’t expect it to be humming with activity, but he had hoped it would be easy to determine if something was going on.

  The gate they had come through was ancient and sagging, rust the main element holding it together. Even with the fencing lacking the proper means to keep the unwanted out, it looked as if no one had driven through the entrance in decades. The tarmac of the parking lot barely existed. Grass and weeds had taken over and if it weren’t for black patches showing through in spots, the parking lot would look like an overgrown field.

  Stepping from the car, Jaxon noted that he could discern no other tire tracks or clues that vehicular traffic was utilizing this entrance. They could be coming in the back, but he couldn’t tell from here.

  “Looks promising,” Ray said, shielding his eyes from the sun sinking behind the building. The heat was still oppressive at this late hour in the afternoon and Jaxon began to sweat immediately.

  “That’s the way they want it to seem. Come on.”

  They walked to what looked to be the entrance, old plywood nailed up across the doors and first floor windows, a few old gang tags spray-painted on the rotting wood, but nothing recent. That bothered Jaxon. He would expect it to be a perfect opportunity for the local gang artist to do his thing.

  At the door, Jaxon tried to peer inside through any crack as Ray did the same at the closest window. It was sealed up tight and Jaxon could see nothing. As he pulled on a loose segment, the wood gave with a screech of rusty nails and pulled away from the structure. On the other side, the door lay ajar, an inky blackness beckoned to them with only a touch of light penetrating.

  Jaxon squeezed through the crack and Ray followed.

  The smell assaulted them. It was that same waxy scent that had been at the Mason home. The smell of melting crayons. But much stronger.

  Light leaked in through dirty windows above them and Jaxon could see better than he at first thought when he tried to see from outside.

  The warehouse was huge, easily over one hundred fifty thousand square feet. In the center, huge rusty cranes dangled old chains and wire from pulley systems that would never move again. A large machine dominated the floor, its oily smell mixing with the wax. Various gears, doors, and parts lay scattered around the ancient hulk.