Elusive Justice (Kensington-Gerard Detective series Book 2)

by K. T. Roberts

  Elusive Justice

  K. T. Roberts

  Dedicated to Bob

  Without you, there is no music.

  BOOKS BY K. T. ROBERTS

  The Last Witness (Kensington-Gerard Detective Series-One

  Elusive Justice (Kensington-Gerard Detective Series- Two

  Deadly Obsessions (Kensington-Gerard Detectives Series-Three

  Magnetic Attraction-Contemporary Romance

  Educating Daphne-Contemporary Romance

  Blind Retribution - 2016

  Cover Design by Carol Webb – Bella Media Management

  © Revised Edition – 5-5-2016 by K. T. Roberts

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission from the author.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  As always, no book would be possible without the shared knowledge and encouragement of others throughout the process.

  My heartfelt thanks to my sister, L. Jessie Esposito, a former undercover detective in the Port Authority of NY-NJ for her knowledge and thirty-six years of expertise to make sure I was on the right track. Another thanks to the law enforcement officers at crimescenewriters, and Lee Lofland of the Writers’ Police Academy who willingly answer my unending questions.

  On the home front, my wonderful husband, Bob, who played a significant role in helping to make this story a reality! I love you with all my heart.

  Praise for The Last Witness and Elusive Justice

  “Even the ending packs a punch!”

  “I’m not going to spoil anything about this book, but I will say . . . if you like James Paterson’s books, you’ll really enjoy this one.”

  “For those who got hooked on the O.J. trial, you’ll enjoy the latest from K. T. Roberts.”

  “But perhaps my favorite character is twelve-year-old Max, a kid who has to deal with the clash between conscience and curiosity. I'm ready to adopt Max.”

  “This mystery touches all the bases: an investigation, a villain, a dash of romance and a pinch of humanity. You'll like it. I did.”

  “This book really holds your attention from the very first page.” “K.T. Roberts manages to weave mystery, romance and suspense all in one story. Loved it! So much so that I started the book and could not put it down until I'd read the very last word!!”

  “This is a well-structured police procedural with two sharp detectives who know how to get the job done.”

  CHAPTER ONE

  HAROLD THOMAS heard the succession of popping sounds on the side of his house, right outside his office window. He shrugged it off as a car’s backfire. It wasn’t until the window shattered and the shards of broken glass pelted over him that he realized it was more than that. Within seconds, his vision blurred. Confusion set in. He tried to move, but he no longer had control. And then hot blood poured down his throat like a faucet while a weird sensation encroached as though he had a noose tightening around his neck,

  tighter,

  tighter,

  still tighter.

  He gasped and slumped over the arm of the chair. He tried to swallow to keep up with the flow. He couldn’t. He could feel the blood fill his lungs. And then the deep burning pain now searing through him like an inferno made him release a noise. He stared into the distance and heard the fierce pounding of his heart ricocheting against his rib cage, and then complete helplessness took over. That’s when he knew—he’d been shot. The pain was so severe he couldn’t focus. He tried to convince himself it was nothing. He’d be all right, but the heat of the pain delved deeper.

  Harold coughed up blood and it spilled from his mouth and hit the floor. The sound of blood pouring from his mouth and hitting the floor was now magnified like a pack of wild horses stampeding through an open field. He tried to call out for help but nothing came out. And finally, his heart rate slowed; his hearing dulled and the last thing he heard was the shrill sound of Jake’s scream before he slipped into total darkness.

  Eleven-year old Jake Thomas hit the floor with a loud thud when the shots rang out. “Dad, dad!” he screamed when he heard the window shatter and crash to the floor. A thick silence took over as if time stood still until he heard the voices in the distance . . . and then a low guttural groan escaped his father’s mouth.

  Scared and shaking, Jake managed to crawl across the floor on his belly, the glass cutting through his t-shirt with each movement. He didn’t feel anything except a pinch, nor did he care. By the time he reached his father’s office the first thing he noticed was a blanket of blood pooling on the floor below his head like a flood.

  “Dad, Dad,” he said pushing on his arm, “Talk to me.” His ten-year old mind told him his father was okay; he’d been knocked out cold. “Dad?” he begged. “Please talk to me,” his knees now sinking into the pool of blood causing him to slide onto his side. He grabbed onto the chair to pull himself back up onto his knees, then latched onto his father’s hand hoping he’d grip it back like he always did. Nothing happened. That’s when Jake knew. His father was dead.

  The lights in the room blinked when the air conditioner kicked on. Startled by fierce shouting outside, Jake jerked back and crawled under the desk, glancing up at his father’s lifeless body. He gagged from the acrid smell of blood. An icy shiver snaked down his spine one vertebra at a time. Get help shot through his mind. His body was frozen in place afraid to move for fear he’d be shot next. He scolded himself knowing he had to pull it together. His father’s encouraging words from the past echoed through his mind. Pull yourself together, son. Being scared is a defeatist attitude. He knew he had to help somehow.

  Still low to the floor he crawled out to the living room. He knew he had to do something but his mind was blank. Panic seized every inch of his body. And then he noticed the white sticker on the phone with the numbers 911. He blew out a breath, thanking divine intervention for stepping in. He dialed the number.

  “This is the 911 operator, what is your emergency?”

  “My father . . . he’s been shot . . . we need help, now!” he said in a low shaky voice.

  “Is your father breathing?”

  Jake began to ramble. “He was in his office and I heard a loud pop and then the window shattered from gunfire.” He swallowed hard, taking a break before he continued, the tears flowing softly, “I think he’s dead.”

  “Did you check his pulse?”

  “I tried to hold his hand. He wouldn’t grip mine. Maybe he’s mad at me.”

  “Why would your dad be mad?”

  “Because I wasn’t brave.”

  “Oh sweetheart. Your dad wouldn’t think that at all.”

  “Did you call for help yet?” Jake asked impatiently.

  “Your information has been dispatched. Someone will be there shortly. “What is your name?”

  “Jake . . . Jake Thomas.”

  “How old are you Jake?”

  “Eleven. I just turned eleven.”

  “Where is your dad?”

  “I told you . . . in his office,” he said raising his voice. “He’s slumped over and there’s blood all over the floor. I should clean it up. He’ll get mad if I leave it there.”

  “No, Jake, please stay right here with me and keep talking. Okay? They should be there any minute.”

  “We’re at 166 Reville Street in the Bronx, right next to Pelham Bay Park. That’s City Island, in case you don’t know.”

  “And that’s where I sent the police and an ambulance. Your address came up the minute you dialed 911.”
>
  “Okay, I gotta go.”

  “No. Please stay with me, Jake.”

  “No, I have to hide.”

  There was no doubt about it. He was freaking out and he couldn’t stop. Tears rolled down his cheeks as he hung up the phone and ran down the hall, ducking down at every door opening until he reached his bedroom door. Rushing inside, he slammed the door so hard the pictures on the wall fell to the floor and shattered. Thinking it was more gunfire he made a beeline for his closet and shut the door, thankful there were no windows in the small enclosure.

  An overpowering attack of anxiety made him hyperventilate. He cautioned himself to calm down—he was using up too much oxygen. He sat very still for a few minutes trying to breathe normally.

  God, when was help going to get there? He pressed his ear up against the door to listen, hoping the gunfire was over. He wondered why the police hadn’t come yet. Shouldn’t they have been there by now? He couldn’t wait; he had to hide some place where he wouldn’t be found. And then he remembered he had an access panel to the attic right above his head. If those bad guys saw him through the broken window, they’d come for him next. And he knew the closet would most likely be the first place they’d look. But they wouldn’t think to look in the attic. He had to move fast even though he’d never been up there before. Random thoughts raced through his mind remembering the sounds he’d often heard at night coming from overhead. His father told him it was mice or squirrels storing their nuts for the winter. But he cautioned him about going upstairs. He said it wasn’t safe up there on the oft chance the animals were rabid. But if it meant staying alive, that’s where he was going even if he was bitten.

  Opening the closet door on a crack, he peeked out to make sure no one was in his room, then quickly pulled a chair inside. The ceilings in the old house weren’t more than eight feet high, and with his lanky 5’3” height, he could reach the opening to the attic without difficulty. This was one time being tall for his age was a blessing. He grabbed a hanger off the rack, let the shirt hanging from it fall to the floor, and shoved the panel aside. Grabbing the flashlight off one of the shelves, he tossed it up into the opening and listened to it roll across the floor. Grabbing onto the sides of the opening he hoisted himself up into the attic using his feet on the shelving for support.

  Once up there, he sat down on the flooring until his eyes readjusted to the stream of sunlight coming though the vents. His heart was pounding frantically as he looked around the room. Seeing plywood flooring scattered over the beams in various places with pink cotton-candy like stuff sticking up from those beams not covered, he lay down to catch his breath.

  Feelings of intimidation ached in his gut because he was up in the attic, a place his father had warned him about. He wasn’t quite sure why. His father had apparently been up there with several boxes stacked up in the corner. Jake shook his head. What was he doing worrying about why his father didn’t want him up there? He was safe--that was what mattered right now. He tried to push his anxiety aside and heard his father’s voice telling him to be brave. Things would be alright.

  Sitting back up, Jake slid the panel back into the crawlspace until he was sure it was seated in the right spot. Using his flashlight, he checked the corners of the room until he was satisfied there were no monsters or rabid animals currently in view. He shuddered thinking they might be hiding, and prayed they wouldn’t come out. His heart pounded in his ears. The smell of the attic brought back memories of his father—it reminded him of the stuffy smelling old shop he and his dad visited when they vacationed in New England. He sucked in a deep breath and blew it out, the tears begging to unleash, but he forced himself to remain tough.

  Bending his knees, Jake suddenly noticed he was wet with blood until he fanned his hands out and saw it all over his hands. God, had he left fingerprints of blood downstairs? That would be a dead giveaway to the killer. He released air from his nose. The irony of that thought about it being a dead giveaway had him even more frightened. He hugged his knees and began to rock back and forth until he heard car doors slamming and muffled voices. Oh God, he thought as his heart kicked up another notch, who’s here? He tried to tell himself a killer wouldn’t be so loud. But why not? The killer was the person with the gun, not him. Inching his way over to the window and walking across the uncovered beams like he was on a tightrope, he reminded himself to walk carefully before he fell in between and right through the ceiling. That would definitely blow his cover. Making it to the window, he looked down and blew out a breath when he saw two uniformed policemen approaching the house. One was speaking into some gadget attached to his uniform at his left shoulder. A slight sense of relief washed over him except his imagination ran wild and had him wondering if the men might be disguised as policemen. Maybe they were coming to kill him too.

  Jake jumped when he heard them knock on the front door. When no one answered, they rang the bell and finally gave up and entered the house. He remembered that the door would still have been unlocked from when he’d gotten the morning paper.

  Holding his breath to avoid making any noise, Jake could hear them moving about downstairs until the footsteps stopped. When they began talking all at once, he knew, they’d found his father. Moving gingerly on his butt, he sat down across the opened beams, he didn’t make a sound.

  Detective Zachary Gerard gulped down the last swallow of coffee, shoved the empty cup into the dishwasher and tucked his cell phone in his jacket pocket. Sliding on his shades, he headed out the front door when his phone rang. He stopped mid-step to answer the call. It was Dispatch calling to report a gunshot victim’s location on Reville Avenue. He rushed to his car, popped the locks and slid behind the steering wheel, cranked up the engine and pulled out of his parking space onto the main road.

  Driving down his street in City Island, New York, made him happy to be there except at times like these. He’d known about City Island, but living there was a different story. The quaint New England-like streets and the fishing village atmosphere reminded Zach of his childhood during fishing trips with his grandfather. But receiving a call from dispatch about a shooting on the Island surprised the heck out of him when the town looked like something out of a Currier & Ives postcard. Shootings seemed more out of place there as opposed to his old stomping grounds when he worked in the two-one precinct.

  City Island, the best kept secret in New York, had a little over forty-five hundred inhabitants. Linked to the Bronx by two bridges made it the perfect place to live.

  Reality summoned his attention back to his partner, Red McGee, who was waiting for him by the bridge. In the distance, he saw McGee waving his arms frantically. His carrot top red hair was like a neon sign and hard to miss even if Red covered it with a baseball cap. Although neat, Red’s hair was longer than most in the department. The boss hadn’t said anything about it, but regardless of what measures McGee took, his hair sprung out from under the cap on the sides like a clown’s wig, and the contrast of his light freckled complexion made the color of his hair more dominant as though he’d dyed it.

  McGee’s slow movements drove Zach nuts. “For chrissake, McGee, get in the car,” Zach said impatiently wishing he could put a stick of dynamite up his ass and light it to get him to hurry. McGee shut the door and Zach pulled away before he even had his seatbelt buckled.

  “Christ, do you want another fatality on your hands?”

  “Don’t be so dramatic,” Zach said, while McGee made a face and stared straight ahead. “We have an eleven-year old kid alone in the house with a dead father a few feet away.”

  “Well, why didn’t you say that?”

  “Didn’t you listen to dispatch this morning?”

  “No, I slept in.”

  “Yeah, well that’s how it goes.” Zach blinked his eyes in disgust. He decided thinking about Jessie was a lot nicer. They’d lived together for a while until they realized they were not as compatible as they’d thought. They’d been single for so many years, flexibility was not part of
their vocabulary. But now that she wasn’t around, he still had to contend with McGee who didn’t know his ass from his elbow, but that was another story. He relished the idea of having both: Jess as a partner and as a lover. Of course, that was against the rules, and boy, did he hate rules.

  Seeing the residence on the opposite side of the road, he parked the car and together the two raced to the front door.

  The sound of tires crunching on the driveway caught Jake’s attention. He stood up again, carefully balancing himself on the open beams on the floor and peered down. It was a black sedan. Two men exited the car and walked to the side of the driveway to allow room for the ambulance. Thank God. Maybe his father wasn’t dead and they could save him. He prayed it was true so he’d have another chance to tell him how much he loved him.

  Hearing the muffled sounds of voices below, Jake slowly moved behind the stacked boxes his father had near the corner where he hid. He wished he could hear what they were saying, and prayed extra hard that he’d hear his father’s voice. He slowly lowered himself down to his knees and placed his ear against the floor accidently dropping the flashlight he held. The noise was unmistakable, and he knew it was a matter of time before they caught him. A brief silence took over and the only audible sound was his rapid breathing. A few seconds went by that seemed like hours.

  Suddenly, the attic stairs were pulled down and the daylight seeping in made his heart race. His entire body shook but he slowly pushed back deeper into the darkened corner, his back resting against the roof, and covered his knees with his bloody t-shirt, no longer worried about rats and squirrels attacking him. He ducked the light beam bouncing off the ceiling followed by heavy footsteps mounting the ladder, and watched a dark silhouette emerge through the opening, the light now jerking across the entire room and stopping on him.