People going in and out of the bar never noticed the man sitting alone in the dark sedan. Dressed in dark clothing, he was almost imperceptible, unless they were to look very closely. It was a warm evening, and he was a little uncomfortable in long sleeves and a skull cap. Dark glasses completed the look. He watched them walk to Lane’s car and was impressed when Lane opened the door for Emma and helped her into the car. Lane wasted no time and pulled out a few minutes later. The man didn’t follow immediately. He knew exactly where they were going and didn’t want to draw any undue attention.
As they drove off, Emma reached into her purse and produced a silver flask. She pretended to take a drink, and, a moment later, pretended to take another.
“Whoa, there!” exclaimed Lane, “Can’t wait ‘til we get there? What do you have there?”
“Just getting a head start. Here, have some,” she replied as she handed him the flask. He took a drink and liked the sweet flavor. Tasted like a Mojito with a slight aftertaste. The rum mixed with mint was just enough to cover the taste of the Trazadone and Quaalude she had spiked it with. A few drinks of the mixture would knock anyone out.
The animal sitting next to her repulsed her, but she played her part well and snuggled close to him as he drove home. She was excited, but not about getting in bed with him. They had talked about making him their first target, and she had dreamed about what was coming for weeks. Lane took another draw from the flask and handed it back to her. She wanted him to drink up but didn’t want the effects to start while they were still driving. Once they reached his driveway, she encouraged him to take a few more slugs from the flask. He was already feeling the effect when they stepped through the front door of his house. He stumbled a bit but was giddy with anticipation.
Chapter Two
“It is your work in life that is your ultimate seduction.”
—Pablo Picasso
Detective Jacob Stein was lying in bed after a fitful night of sleep. He had barely slept, tossing and turning all night. A few beers had done little to help him forget the gruesome details of a domestic homicide case he had just closed. Jake, as he liked to be called, was a twenty-year veteran of the Denver Police Department. Highly dedicated and decorated, he still had trouble dealing with the violence one person could inflict upon another. His Jewish parents had tried to dissuade him from going into police work. It wasn’t good enough for him, they’d said. Why couldn’t he become an attorney like his Uncle Abe in New York? But he resisted the pressure, saying he wanted to solve crimes, not defend criminals. And, as it turned out, he was very good at catching criminals. But the unforeseen consequence was the toll of seeing what people could do to each other. The more gruesome the case was, the more time he needed to take off between cases. His success rate earned him a strong reputation in the department and special consideration from the chief.
Jake had celebrated his fortieth birthday just before taking on his most recent homicide case. Even though he was fit and healthy, the job was taking its toll on him. His doctor warned him that the combination of a bad diet and stress was driving up his blood pressure and was likely causing him to lose sleep. Medications could help, said his doctor, but Jake turned him down. What he didn’t need was a sleep aid that would dull his senses. As for the rising blood pressure, well, he would see if he could find time to increase his exercise level to bring it down. To mitigate stress, he made a bargain with his wife and doctor that he would take time off between cases. The plan was to take three to five days off after a case and spend the time hanging out with his family and focusing on exercise. If it didn’t work, he promised he would consider medications.
The homicide case was closed on Thursday, and he spent Friday in his pajamas, reading a novel and playing with his kids. On Saturday, he planned on making cinnamon pancakes for the kids, wrestling with them for exercise, and rounding out the day with a movie. Sunday would be a repeat of Saturday. His wife had made plans for him for Monday and Tuesday, but he wasn’t quite sure what she had in mind. If he behaved, she would allow him to return to work on Wednesday. Her instructions to him were that, for those few days, he was to pretend like he wasn’t a homicide detective. No newspaper. No evening news. No talk of the recent case—or any other case, for that matter.
And it would have worked if Lane Stevens—who just happened to have a financial relationship with the chief—hadn’t gotten himself murdered on Friday night.
Climbing out of bed, Jake heard the TV blaring. The kids were arguing over what to watch, and it was about to devolve into a fight. Preferring distraction over confrontation, Jake interrupted the argument, asking if anyone was in the mood for pancakes. His pancakes, made in the shapes of animals, were always a hit. The fight ended immediately as the kids ran into the kitchen to give Jake instructions on what shapes to make. His wife, Rachel, was already up and had a pot of coffee brewing. She looked up from the morning paper to say good morning and offer him a kiss.
She loved mornings when he relaxed and took things slowly. She knew he was the best detective in Denver—maybe even in the entire state of Colorado—but secretly wished he had become a businessman or teacher or, for that matter, the attorney his parents had wanted him to become. Just about any profession that would have him at home more and less stressed out would have been preferable. The danger of the job was an issue, too. She always worried he wouldn’t come home someday. But he was a cop when they met, and she was proud to know he was so good at his job and so well-respected.
The pancakes started coming off the griddle. First, a horse, and then, an elephant. She smiled at his talent and creativity. She would have been happy with a plain pancake for herself, but the kids insisted he make her a giraffe, and so, he embarked on the task. It was going to be a challenge to turn it over, but he was more than game, and started pouring.
No sooner did he have the body and legs poured, his cell phone rang. It was not a phone he used for personal business, so there was no doubt who it was. His heart raced a few beats faster than normal. Rachel gave him that look that said, please don’t answer, but he couldn’t resist. His sense of duty was too strong. He looked back at her sadly and held up the spatula. She understood the request and took over the pancake detail. They wouldn’t look as elaborate, but with enough maple syrup, they would still taste just fine. The kids weren’t so sure. Jake had long ago convinced them that animal shapes enhanced the flavor, and nothing Rachel could do could change that.
Jake picked up the phone and glanced at the screen before answering it as he walked into the living room. He could guess it wasn’t a social call.
“Good morning, Captain,” he said, trying to sound friendly.
“Stein, I need you to take a case. There was a murder last night.”
“I was going to take a day or two off, Captain,” he replied, knowing it was already a lost cause.
“I know you were, and if I didn’t absolutely need you, I wouldn’t bother you. This case is going to be high-profile. The victim is high-profile. Name is Lane Stevens. I got a call from the chief, saying he wanted this case solved quickly and discreetly. Turns out the dead guy had ties to the chief and the mayor, and I’m not sure who else. And, get this—the DA got wind of the murder and said that, by coincidence, his office was about to open an investigation into Stevens’ business dealings.”
Jake wondered if the list of business ties also included the chief.
“Also, Jake, I want you to break in a new rookie. Transferred here a few days ago. His name is Chris Baird. Young guy, came to us via Pueblo. Good scores at academy and shows a lot of promise. Since I want this case solved quickly, I want you to use him in any way you can. Make him do the grunt work if you want. Just get this case solved quickly and quietly. Crime scene guys are still at the scene. I’ll have Trudy get you all the details. You can meet your new protégé there.”
Jake tried to break in, but the captain cut him off.
“Oh, and be careful on this case. As I said, he’s well-known, and
more importantly, he’s been handling investments for the Denver elite. The owner of the Tribune is one of them, and he’s likely going to want some of the details kept quiet.”
Crap, thought Jake, as the call went dead. Rachel wasn’t going to be pleased, and neither would the kids. He returned to the kitchen to break the bad news as Rachel was turning the last of the pancakes. She handed him a plate and could tell from his expression—and her years of being a detective’s wife—that the weekend plans had just been dashed.
“I already know what you’re going to say,” she said, unable to hide her disappointment. “At least have a pancake before you go.”
He grabbed a pancake off the plate. “I’ll make it up to you guys. Honest,” he said as he chewed on it dry. “I should have been a lawyer like my parents wanted,” he said, mumbling to himself as he went to get ready.
The boys were disappointed but tried not to show it too much. They’d been down this road numerous times and had learned it didn’t do any good to complain about it.
“Get the bad guys, Dad,” they said between bites of giraffes and elephants, followed by somewhat rounder pancakes.
Twenty minutes later, Jake was pulling up to the Stevens’ crime scene. Yellow crime scene tape cordoned off the area and kept onlookers off the property, while cops and crime scene specialists wandered about, taking pictures, samples, and statements from neighbors. One man talking to a uniformed cop stood out from the crowd due to his youthful appearance and the suit and tie he wore. Undoubtedly, his new protégé. Jake approached the two men.
“Sanchez,” he nodded to the uniformed cop.
“Hey, Jake,” he replied as they shook hands.
“You must be Detective Baird? I’m Jake Stein,” said Jake as he held out his hand. Detective Baird took his hand enthusiastically.
“Yes, Sir, I’m Chris Baird. I’m thrilled for the opportunity to work with you.”
“Okay, then. Let’s get to it.” He turned to Sanchez. “What do we have?”
“Well, the crime scene guys should be finishing up any minute.” He took out a pad and looked at his notes. “The deceased is a guy named Lane Stevens. Local financial advisor. At about seven this morning, a cabbie arrived to take him to the airport. He honked a few times and when no one came out, he knocked on the door. No one answered, so he went around back and looked in the patio door. He could see the deceased through the window, strapped to a chair by the dining table. He immediately called 911. I was the first cop on the scene when the paramedics got here. The deceased had a bunch of money shoved in his mouth.”
“Excuse me? Say again?” asked Detective Stein.
“What part, Sir?”
“Money in his mouth.”
“Yes, Sir. Money was literally falling out of his mouth. His hands were taped behind his back, so someone must have stuffed money down his throat. The paramedics think he gagged and vomited and probably choked on his vomit.”
“Wow. That is odd,” said Detective Baird.
“Yep, first time I’ve seen that. What else you got for me?”
“There were a few pills on the table, along with a bottle of whiskey and two glasses. At that point, I secured the scene and called it in.”
“Thanks, Sanchez.” Detective Stein headed for the front door and motioned for Chris to follow. They paused long enough to put on plastic gloves and paper booties over their shoes. As they entered the living room, a man in a white jumpsuit approached them.
“Good morning, Jake.” The man nodded. “Who’s the kid?” He pointed to the young detective.
“Morning, Gregg. Meet Chris Baird. He’s going to be working with me on this case. Chris, this is Gregg Abbot; he heads up the crime scene investigation team.”
“Thought you always worked alone?” Abbot asked.
“Captain said he wanted Chris to learn the ropes from the old timer,” Stein replied sarcastically. “Either that, or he thinks I’m getting too old to work alone.”
“Ah, you have at least another good year or two left in you,” joked Abbot.
“Ha, ha,” replied the detective. Wasn’t the first or last age joke he had heard from Abbot.
“I spoke with Sanchez. What else can you tell me?”
“Probably not much more yet. Tell me if I’m repeating what you already know. Deceased is Lane Stevens. Bound to the dining room chair with duct tape on the wrists and ankles. We will run tests on the tape for prints and brand but it will probably be no help. Still dusting around for prints but the area is pretty clean. The killers were careful. They also taped his head back, making it easier for them to force money down his throat. By the way, all one-dollar bills. I’m guessing at this point, we will find death by asphyxiation caused by vomit blocking the airways. Judging by his condition, I’m guessing time of death was sometime last night between 10 PM and 2 AM. The pills on the table in front of him were Trazadone and Quaaludes. Toxicology will confirm how much was in his system but it was probably quite a bit. Mix that with alcohol, and I’m guessing he was so high, it would have been easy for the perps to shove the money in his mouth. No signs of struggle.”
“So, he drowned in puke?” asked Detective Baird, disgusted.
“What else do you have for me, Gregg?” asked Detective Stein.
“Lipstick stains on one of the glasses, but no prints on it. The girl must have been wearing gloves. Why she didn’t bother to wipe the glass clean, I don’t know. We also have some distinct prints in the carpet. Men’s size and clearly high heels. We also know she was a blonde. We picked up some blonde hairs on the victim’s jacket as well as some in his car. So, he must have picked her up somewhere and brought her here, and the other prints belong to the person who took her home. And—you’ll love this—in his jacket pocket was a one-way ticket to the Cayman Islands and a passport in the name of Henry J. Smythe, address in New York. He also had a drivers’ license in his own name. Both IDs had the same picture.”
Jake wondered if Stevens knew the DA was coming and wanted to skip town before they could move on him. That would explain the plane ticket, but he had to be planning this for some time to be able to get a fake passport.
“And last, but not least…” He held up a plastic baggie with a note inside. “…is a note from the killers.” He handed it to Detective Stein, who read it out loud.
Lane has ripped people off for the last time. He choked on his ill-gotten gains. He was a scumbag, and we are all better off without him. Others like him should take heed. Their day will come soon.
The Revengers
“Vigilante killers?” volunteered Baird.
“Possibly,” replied Stein pensively. “Too soon to tell, really. This note could be a ruse. It could just as easily be a revenge killing. The captain said the victim was a prominent investment advisor, but the DA was about to investigate him for fraud. It’s just as likely that this was one of his investors who lost money. Thanks, Gregg. Let me know if you pick up anything else.”
“Sure thing, Jake,” said Gregg as he turned to leave.
The detectives spent the next hour walking around the crime scene, looking for any other clues but there was nothing they didn’t already know. Other than the pills, some hair fibers, lipstick on one of the glasses, and the note, they had nothing. The note itself didn’t look distinctive in any way. Stein noted that it was probably printed with a mass-produced printer, and with as careful as the perps appeared to be, he didn’t expect to find any prints on it.
“Chris,” said Stein, “First thing we need to do is inform the family. I don’t want them hearing this on the news. While I talk with the family, I want you to head over to his office. I want a complete list of past and present clients. Especially past clients. See if his office can tell you whether any clients lost a lot of money.”
Jake was troubled by the lack of any signs of struggle. Lipstick on one of the glasses and the drugs on the table suggested he knew his assailant and partied with her, but he didn’t think the victim would get chummy wit
h a disgruntled client. The extremely clean crime scene and prepared note told Jake the killers had planned this in advance. They were careful but not perfect. The drugs, blonde hairs, and note could all be mistakes that point to the killers. The note was worrisome. Was it an explanation, a warning as it implied, or a red herring? He had a sick feeling this was going to be a tough case. Why had they left a note? And how deep did this go? Was it a coincidence they hit him just before the DA got involved? Then there was the plane ticket. Could the killers have struck the night before because they knew about his travel plans?
As they prepared to leave the crime scene, Jake warned Chris, “The press will be outside, and they will try to get you to talk. At this point, I want to limit what they have. So, no leaks. No matter how much they hound you, I want you to keep quiet. No details. Anything they get needs to be from me. Clear?”
“Yes, Sir,” replied Chris.
Chapter Three
"The best way to appreciate your job is to imagine yourself without one."
—Oscar Wilde
Across town, while the cab driver was honking his horn, trying to alert Lane Stevens that his ride was there, Justin McGraw watched with curiosity as a little man dressed like a band leader marched toward him. The little man was pounding on a bass drum, and as he moved closer, the pounding grew louder and louder. At first, Justin didn’t recognize the man, but as he approached, his face became clearer. It was a familiar face from his childhood but with a twisted and evil grin. Justin tried to turn and run, but his legs felt like they were filled with lead. His anxiety grew as the man marched closer and closer. The drumbeat grew louder, until Justin thought his head would burst. Then, it came to him. The man with the evil grin, pounding the drum, was Mr. Piper, Justin’s old high school band leader. The realization gave him an uneasy feeling; Justin and Mr. Piper had never gotten along well. The two were always at odds. He could see Mr. Piper’s lips moving but couldn’t make out what he was saying over the pounding drum.
All In A Day's Work Page 3
