Jake saw it hit Seth again, that his mother was gone. He wrapped his arms around his waist and rocked like he did back at his office.
All this time, Jacobson hadn’t said anything, so Jake turned to him. “Do you have any questions, counselor?”
“No, you covered pretty much everything. When will you know something about the cause of death?”
They knew the cause, though they withheld the information on purpose. “Not until the autopsy’s finished can we supply the information to you,” Louie answered.
“Okay, let us know. If you need to speak with them again, please give me a call.”
“Will do. Cara, Seth, we’d like to have a look at your mother’s room,” Jake said quietly.
“I don’t want anyone pawing through her things. It’s bad enough someone invaded her privacy and killed her, now this?” Cara spewed.
Chapter Four
Jake watched Cara process his request. She looked over at Jacobson. He nodded to her.
“I need to lie down. Just do it. I’m not watching you rifle through her things. Knowing someone was in her stuff would kill her,” Cara said angrily. She turned to leave the room; then spun back to Jake. “Make sure, Lieutenant, you catch the bastard who did this to our mother.”
Seth left the room, chasing after his sister. “Well, that went well. Are you staying, Counselor?” Jake asked.
“Yes.”
Jake sent Louie out to their car to grab the evidence kits. They put on their gloves in preparation of their search of Chelsea’s room. Chelsea’s organizational skills showed. A neat woman with good quality clothes, shoes, and furniture. Not an overabundance of anything. It looked like she lived within her means. All of Chelsea’s jewelry was fourteen karat gold. Everything in the room was so precisely organized, it almost hurt. Clothes were color coordinated in both the closet and the drawers.
The top drawer held her functional underwear. Jake discovered the sexy lingerie in the second drawer. He couldn’t tell if they were new or old. She took care of everything she owned. Her bathroom, free of clutter, shined to a gloss. In her closet, her shoes were lined up under matching outfits. A high end fabric covered the bed without all the fuss of pillows some women liked. It told Jake a lot about the woman.
Chelsea Adams was a practical, confident, organized woman, who wasn’t afraid to show her feminine side. A question popped into Jake’s head. Who was she showing it to?
He didn’t get into details too much with the kids. They weren’t up to it. Jake and Louie left the house and headed over to her office next. Jake wanted to get a total feel for Chelsea by the end of the day.
Chelsea worked for the State as a social worker. Her office was located on Thomaston Avenue. It was a long, grey concrete, unimaginative office building, like most state office buildings. The structure was divided in half. The Unemployment Office was situated on one side; the other side housed the Welfare Department, now called Social Services. They headed into the Welfare office. The receptionist didn’t bother to look up; she pointed to a sign-in sheet. On principle, Jake didn’t sign in; he held his shield under her nose until she acknowledged him.
“What can I do for you, Officer?” she asked, after a couple of moments.
“That’s Lieutenant. I need to speak with Mrs. Adams’ supervisor.” Instead of calling him, she got up and walked to the back of the room, disappearing from sight.
“You sure got used to ‘Lieutenant’ pretty quickly.” Louie elbowed him.
“Oh, yeah.” Jake said. The rest of his comment was cut off by a small man of about five-four with a rounded pot belly that reminded Jake of a basketball. His hair, or lack of it, sported a comb-over. That always amused Jake. Did this guy really think he fooled anyone into believing he still had hair?
“Lieutenant, I’m Angelo Torres, Chelsea’s supervisor. Please follow me to my office. It’s a terrible tragedy. We heard a little while ago she’d been found.”
He led the way through a maze of cubicles to an office the size of a postage stamp. The tight, small space told Jake Angelo’s status in the department—a low level manager.
“How did you hear?” Jake asked.
“Her daughter called Sara here, who told all of us. Please have a seat.”
“Thanks. Did Chelsea work directly for you, Mr. Torres?” Jake jumped right in.
“Yes. I distribute the work load. I oversee everyone’s files, including Chelsea’s. If an employee has a problem or issue they can’t resolve, it’s handed over to me.”
“Did Chelsea routinely have problems?” Louie asked.
“No, her clients respected her. She treated everyone fairly. Never ran out of patience, like some do. She didn’t make people feel uncomfortable; like they shouldn’t be here. She was a rare breed. We’ll miss her,” Angelo concluded.
“Did she ever have a client who wasn’t satisfied? Or felt they deserved more than what was offered?” Jake asked.
“Only once. She had a problem with a client, a man, about two years ago, who was denied benefits. He wouldn’t leave her alone. She finally filed a complaint with the police. After she filed the complaint, he didn’t bother her anymore. I think he tried to intimidate her. It didn’t work. She was a tough nut.”
“Anything else? Any insight into Chelsea you can think of that would help us catch whoever did this to her, Angelo?” Jake used his first name, hoping for some personal input on Chelsea, but he got none.
“No, not really. She didn’t date anyone from the department. She did her job. I wish I had more workers like her, my life would be easier,” he finished.
“Okay, thanks. We’re going to need to interview her co-workers. Is there a place we can do the interviews in private? Here in your office or in a conference room?”
“Why don’t I show you to the break room? Here’s the list of the employees in her department, with their titles. I also included how long they’ve worked with Chelsea.”
“Thanks,” Jake said.
*
They interviewed ten co-workers. All were shocked or sickened over Chelsea’s death, but could offer no reason why someone would hurt her. Her friends—the ones she went out to dinner with on April sixteenth—weren’t at work. They left after being notified of her death, finding it too difficult to deal with. Angelo gave them their home addresses and phone numbers. Jake started with the one closest to work. He wanted them interviewed before the end of the week.
First on the list was Sara Hurdle. She lived in the west end of town. The door opened only a couple of inches when he knocked; a heavy chain kept it from opening any further. Jake looked into one swollen green and red eye while Sara Hurdle hid behind the door. “Ms. Hurdle, can we come in?” Jake asked as they identified themselves, offering their IDs before she’d let them in. “Yes, I’m sorry.” She closed the door. He heard the rattle of the chain as the door reopened. Sara stood there in a ratty bathrobe. He knew grief. This woman grieved, but more—she looked scared. “I know this is going to be difficult, Sara. May I call you Sara?” Jake asked.
“Yes, Sara’s fine.”
“We need to ask you some questions about Friday night, okay?”
“I knew the police would come asking all kinds of question. I’ve racked my brains trying to find answers. Nothing. I don’t have any.” Sara started crying. “If we thought she was in any trouble or someone was bothering her, we wouldn’t have let her leave by herself.” She wiped her tears. “I’m sorry.”
“There’s no reason for you to be sorry, Sara, we know this is a difficult time. Are those new locks on your door?” Jake asked, as they walked to the couch and sat.
“Yes, I know it doesn’t make any sense, but I’m scared. I thought the new lock would help put me at ease.”
“Why are you scared, Sara?” Louie sat down on the couch beside her.
“This is something you read about in the newspapers, not something that happens to you or anyone you know. I know, that sounds stupid…”
“No, it does
n’t. What we need to do is go through the whole night piece by piece. Okay?”
“Okay, I’ll do anything I can to help. Chelsea was the best person in the whole world. We not only worked together, we’re friends. I can’t believe she’s gone.” Sara started sobbing again. Louie took her hand, patted it gently. Jake’s gaze roamed the room, checking it out. Homey, he thought.
“Sara, I need you to pull yourself together, so we can get this done, okay?” Louie’s voice held a gentleness which seemed to bring the grieving woman around.
“I called her kids today. It was so difficult. They were really close.”
“I’m sure they appreciated it. What time did you both leave work on Friday?” Louie asked.
“Oh, we left on time. At four-thirty.”
“What did you do when you left the office?” Jake said nothing, let Louie run the interview. It seemed Sara was more at ease with him.
“We went over to the All Seasons for drinks before dinner. We’d decided last week to dine there.” She stopped, gathered her thoughts. “We were seated around six o’clock. Her girlfriend joined us a little after six.”
“I thought you always ate at the Hills?” Jake interrupted.
“Normally we did. We decided to change it up a little.”
“The fourth woman that night, who was she?” Louie questioned.
“Jora Stein. She works with us.”
“Okay. How long were you at the restaurant?”
“Oh, about two and a half hours. We were killing time. We didn’t want to head out to the club too early. We were feeling no pain, if you know what I mean. We had cocktails before we ate and then switched to wine with dinner. I know I was floating.”
“Was Chelsea also flying?” Louie asked.
“No, she always paced herself. One drink lasted her the whole night. Our perpetual designated driver we called her.”
“Okay, what time did you leave the restaurant and head over to the club?” Louie encouraged her.
“I’m not sure but I think around eight-thirty. We probably got to the golf course about eight forty-five. It’s not very far from the restaurant.”
“Okay, what did you do when you got there?” Louie pushed.
“Well, we just sat at the bar, ordered some drinks. The band didn’t start until nine-thirty. I could tell we were losing Chelsea.”
“How do you mean losing her?”
“Well, she was bored. She really wasn’t a clubber, you know what I mean? She used to only go out to dinner with us, always head home afterward. After her divorce, she started to go out with us after we ate, but only because Julie pushed her. She’s a real homebody.” Sara looked up, devastated. “I mean was a real homebody. Her bastard of an ex left her for a twenty-something bimbo.”
“Okay, so what time did Chelsea leave the bar?” Jake asked.
“She left around ten o’clock. She didn’t even give the band a chance. She excused herself; said she had a headache. We tried to talk her into staying. She wouldn’t hear of it.” Sara’s tears started again. “It was the last time we saw her.” Guilt was written all over her face. Jake felt sorry for her.
“We should have walked her to her car,” Sara sobbed.
“Did you always walk each other to your cars?” Jake asked.
“No, not unless it was a crappy neighborhood.”
“Don’t beat yourself up, Sara. Monday morning quarterbacking never accomplished anything. Did she mention whether she planned on meeting anyone after she left there?” Jake took over the questioning.
“No, not Chelsea. If she said she was going home, she went home.”
“Okay, was she talking or flirting with anyone at the bar who she blew off when she left?”
“No, the only one who hooked up with anyone was Julie. She was talking to some guy she knew from years ago. I don’t know his name. Julie would.”
“Okay, Sara, if you think of anything else, please give me a call. Here’s my card. We’re sorry for your loss,” Louie said.
Once outside of Sara’s apartment, Jake asked, “What do you think?”
“I don’t know what to think. Here’s a quiet woman, one who’s well thought of, and now she’s dead. Someone didn’t think well of her. I think it’s someone she knew.”
“Why?”
“Because somewhere on her way home, she met her death—a practical woman does not stop for a stranger.”
“Yeah, I’m with you there. I want to reach out to the Neptune Police in Florida. We need to pin down exactly where her ex was Friday night.”
“Okay, I’ll give them a call when we get back.”
“Let’s try the next one on our list. Jora Stein.”
Her phone rang. Jake waited until the answering machine picked up, then left Jora a message, stressing the importance of a return call. They got the same response, and left a similar message when they tried to call the victim’s girlfriend, Julie Cahns.
*
Jake placed the call to Neptune, Florida. A receptionist with a heavy southern accent answered. Too heavy for the area, he figured her for a transplant.
“Hi, this is Lieutenant Carrington, from the Wilkesbury, Connecticut police department. May I speak with one of your detectives?”
“Hi, Lieutenant.” She stretched out the second part of Lieutenant, adding a few n’s along the way.
“Hi. I’m sorry; I didn’t catch your name.”
She laughed. “Because I didn’t throw it. It’s Samantha, but most people call me Sammy.”
“Hi Sammy, who would I speak with to get a follow-up on someone’s whereabouts last Friday?” Jake politely asked.
“I’ll give you to the Chief. He can direct you to the right person.”
“Thanks, Sammy. What’s the Chief’s name?”
“Beau Taylor. I’ll get him for you.” She put him on hold.
Jake wasn’t kept waiting long. “Hi, Connecticut, what can I do for you?”
“Hi, Chief Taylor? I have a homicide here. I need you to check on the whereabouts of the ex-husband.”
“It’s Beau, please, we’re not formal here. Okay, can you give me any info on him? The times you want checked out? I’ll do that today.”
“Yes.” Jake supplied all the pertinent information.
“Do you want to know the whereabouts of the new wife also?”
“Most definitely, I hear she wasn’t happy with the alimony settlement.” Jake’s radio crackled to life.
“Any units in the vicinity of Highland and Chase Parkway respond to a 211. Shots have been reported, along with hostages.” The next code put the fear of God in every cop. It was a “10-108.”
“Chief, I have to go. I’ll call you back later.” Jake ended the call without waiting for an answer.
He grabbed his jacket and tagged Louie on his way out. The bullpen also emptied as every available officer rushed to the scene. A 10-108 or 108 meant officer down. No matter what department they belonged to, the wall of blue would be there to protect their own. These situations were stressful. Most cops never used maximum force during their careers, though trained to if a situation required it. Jake never did. Louie had.
Jake drove to the bank located on Highland Avenue, while Louie checked his gun. Armed bank robberies had increased, along with robberies of mini marts, both showing an increase in related violence. These were desperate times.
“When was the last time you checked your gun, Jake?”
“This morning, Louie.”
“Okay. Loaded?”
“Yes.” Jake turned to Louie. “I load it every day. You?”
“Loaded.” They both knew some cops didn’t bother. Utter stupidity in Jake’s opinion.
Jake didn’t answer. There wasn’t a need. They drove in silence, each putting his mind where it needed to be. They tuned in to their radio, listening for updates.
*
Lieutenant Nick Longo from Robbery was in charge. He’d direct them to the position he wanted them to cover. They parked their car
in Chase Park. The park ran along the interstate; offering basketball courts, a sprinkler for the summer, and a club house on no more than five acres. It was set up to accommodate fifty cars. They climbed the hill from the parking lot to reach Longo. He’d set up his control post behind a parked cruiser at the edge of the park; it looked like the whole force had turned out.
“Ready?” Jake asked Louie.
“Ready.”
“Hey, Longo, what’ve you got?”
“Our intel tells us there are two gunmen, three tellers, one manager, and several customers, including a police officer. It’s Tommy Sullivan,” Longo replied.
“Oh shit! Tommy? His wife just delivered their baby this week, didn’t she?” Louie asked.
“Yeah, she did. There were shots fired but we don’t know if anyone’s been hit. The ambulance is here and we’ve tried to contact the suspects, but they’re not responding or giving any demands yet. I’m going to try again.” Longo placed another call to the bank—it went unanswered. Worse, Jake thought, when they didn’t respond.
They were out in force. Longo’s officers, equipped with rifles, were spread out around the building. Tension was etched in each officer’s face as he concentrated on the bank, standing battle ready. Their main concerns were for the hostages. The negotiation team finally arrived.
Jake nodded to Jim Noones, an experienced negotiator, watching him slip on his vest. They both turned toward the bank to assess the situation. At five-nine, Noones gave the appearance of a jolly Irishman: a rounded belly, red nose, ruddy complexion, wheat-colored hair, and sky blue eyes in a round, wide face. Always a joke on his lips, he went instantly from casual to serious when a situation called for it. Anyone who failed to take him seriously paid dearly, Jake knew. Noones handled all his negotiations well with his calm manner, trusting face, and story teller’s smooth voice and timing. So now the dance would begin, Jake mused.
“Hey Jake, I hear congratulations are in order,” Noones said.
“Thanks, Jim.”
He turned to Longo. “Nick, how do you want to handle this?”
IF I FAIL: A Jake Carrington Mystery Page 6
