Authors: Rayven T. Hill
She was sure the gunman had fully expected Jake to go into the house after hearing the shot. Then the would-be killer had planted the burner phone with the incriminating text message under the seat of the Toyota and erased the pictures on the camera.
It seemed like it had been a risky undertaking, but if everything went as planned, Jake would be the perfect suspect.
Had Jake been set up intentionally, or had he fallen neatly into the killer’s scheme merely by being there when it had all gone down?
Her theory made perfect sense, though Annie still didn’t know why Merrilla Overstone had been a target.
On the way home, she wracked her brain to come up with a way of getting the keys to Hank without him knowing of her involvement.
There was only one sure and safe way.
She arrived home and hurried into the office, then stuffed the packet of keys into an envelope and, disguising her handwriting, she addressed it to RHPD in care of Detective Hank Corning.
She’d been careful not to get her fingerprints on the envelope, but probably with a little detective work, Hank could trace it back to her. Undoubtedly, he’d suspect where it had come from, but Annie assumed he wouldn’t bother tracking down the source once he found out what it contained.
She drove to the corner, dropped the envelope into a mailbox, and returned home.
Hank should get it by the next morning, and she was eager to find out where it might lead.
Wednesday, 5:12 p.m.
JAKE WROTE A NOTE requesting the motorcycle be returned to its owner, then attached the note to the bike and parked it outside the fire station. That was the best he could do. He wasn’t about to go near RHPD right now, and he was sure the bike would safely find its way home before long.
He went into a sports shop and bought a new baseball cap and a white t-shirt, dumping his old cap and black shirt into the nearest garbage container. No doubt the officers who’d chased him would’ve radioed in his description. It wasn’t much of a disguise, but he figured it might make the difference between being noticed by another eagle-eyed cop or not.
He wandered down the busy street, approaching the downtown core. Office buildings shot up everywhere. Hard-working folks were getting off work, and people bustled all around him in their haste to get somewhere important. What better place to hide than in plain sight?
When his burner phone rang, he stopped and answered it. It was Sammy, and the homeless man announced he had some good news.
“The guy you’re looking for is Dewey Hicks,” Sammy said. “As far as I could find out, he was boasting to some of the other punks about setting you up.”
“Amazing, Sammy,” Jake said. “Where can I find this guy?”
“I don’t know, Jake. All I can tell you is he hangs around with a nasty crowd. Shouldn’t be too hard to find, though. Apparently, he’s pretty well known among the two-bit criminals.”
“Any idea what he looks like?”
“Can’t help you with that.”
“Anything else you can tell me?”
“You might try some of the dive bars downtown. Ask around. You got any money left?”
“A couple hundred.”
“That’ll open their mouths. I expect there’s not a lot of loyalty with that bunch.” Sammy paused, then added, “But be careful, Jake. You look too much like a cop, and most of them don’t talk to cops. You gotta find the right guy.”
“I’ll figure it out. Thanks, Sammy. I’ll let you know what I come up with.”
“Good luck.”
Jake hung up the phone and stuffed it into his back pocket. Finally, he had a lead, and he was determined to find the punk named Dewey Hicks.
He just didn’t know where to start.
But he had an idea. Sammy had said he looked like a cop, and there really wasn’t any way around it. No matter what he did, he could never disguise himself to look like one of the street punks, and besides, most of them probably knew each other in one way or another. He’d stick out like a sore thumb.
There was only one answer. If he looked like a cop, he’d have to find a way to take advantage of it.
He headed for the fetid backstreets of the older downtown area, where dive bars and hangouts proliferated, hoods hung out on every dimly lit corner, and the tumbledown housing contained the poor, the homeless, and the downtrodden.
A lowlife gave Jake a wary eye when he stopped in front of a dive bar and peered through the grimy window. Half a dozen patrons lounged at tables, while the bartender wiped down the bar with a beer-stained cloth.
Jake moved on and wandered down the next side street. The area was littered with dingy storefronts, owners trying their best to scrape out a living.
Like frightened mice, a couple of delinquents scurried back into an alley when Jake approached.
What were they afraid of?
Jake wanted to find out.
He hurried forward and peered down the alley in time to see the punks scramble through a doorway and disappear.
Jake followed and came to a stop in front of a battered door. He pushed at the door, and it swung open. A stale smell wafted from the narrow hallway. A dusty light bulb allowed barely enough light to see.
He stepped inside. To his right, a metal door was locked securely, probably the rear entrance to one of the many storefronts that lined the street.
Further down, other doors led off to the right, one door to the left, perhaps into an apartment. That had to be where the hoods had gone.
Jake eased down the hallway and stopped in front of the door. He twisted the knob. It was locked.
Hoping there was no back way out, Jake banged on the door. There was no answer, and he stared at the door a moment. Should he break it down?
“Open the door,” he yelled, banging again.
The door opened as far as the security chain would allow, and one of the punks stuck his nose out.
“What d’you want? We ain’t done nothing wrong.”
“Then you won’t mind letting me in.”
“Got a warrant?”
Jake shrugged. “Who needs a warrant? If I had a warrant, I’d have to search the place. You wouldn’t want that, would you?”
The hood’s small brain seemed to be churning. Finally, he closed the door, removed the chain, then scraped the door all the way open.
The guy moved back and Jake stepped into the filthy room. Stale cigarette smoke mixed with the odor of a freshly lit joint. Faint music played from a cheap stereo somewhere in the other room.
The second hood was in a combination bedroom-kitchen, a scowl on his face as he wiped a hand on his grimy t-shirt and looked at Jake.
“I know you guys are selling,” Jake said. He gave the second hood the once-over, taking in the greasy hair that dripped down onto his shoulders, his worn-out jeans, and the cocky look on his boyish face. Both guys were in their early twenties, and Jake wondered how two young lives could go so wrong.
Punk number one looked bewildered. “You ain’t never bothered us before.” He looked at his companion and then back at Jake, a pained expression on his face. “It’s just a bit of weed.”
“Sorry, can’t help it. The captain told us to crack down. Some kind of blitz to keep the mayor happy. There’s an election coming up, you know.” Jake shrugged. “I gotta do what I gotta do.”
The guy swore. “I ain’t heard nothin’ about that.”
“Can’t help what you didn’t hear,” Jake said. “I gotta run you two guys in.”
The guy frowned and peered out into the hallway. “Where’s your partner?”
“Getting his hand looked after. He almost broke a finger on some idiot’s face a few minutes ago.”
The guy scowled. “We ain’t carrying nothing.”
“You want me to search your place?”
The man shook his head.
“Maybe I can help you outta this,” Jake said. “I hear you been getting Oxy from Dewey Hicks.”
A deep frown twisted the punk’s face. “Dewey don’t sell Oxy.”
Jake leaned in and glared, towering over the frightened man by almost twelve inches. “You want outta this or not?”
The guy looked up with eager eyes and nodded vigorously.
The other hood moved closer. “Don’t tell him nothing, Mikey. Dewey’ll plug us full of holes.”
“You don’t have to snitch on Hicks,” Jake said. “Tell me where to find him, and I’ll put in a good word for you guys with the captain.”
“You won’t tell Dewey we talked to you?” Mikey asked.
Jake straightened up. “I won’t say a word, Mikey. Hicks is the guy we really want.”
Mikey glanced at the other punk and received a shrug in return. He crossed his arms, leaned against the wall, and squinted up at Jake. “What’s in it for us? Could be big trouble if Dewey finds out about this.”
“You get to keep your freedom,” Jake said. He folded his hand into a massive fist and held it in front of Mikey’s nose. “Besides, who could do more damage to that pretty face of yours, Hicks, or me?”
Mikey looked cross-eyed at the fist and bit his lip.
“Better tell him, Mikey,” lowlife number two said in a sighing voice.
Jake grabbed a handful of Mikey’s t-shirt. “I advise you to do as your friend says.”
Mikey took a deep breath and spoke, almost spitting out the words. “When he ain’t on a gig, Dewey hangs out at Gully’s most of the time.”
“Who’s Gully?”
“Gully’s Bar. Over on Chester Street.” Mikey shook his head. “But Dewey don’t sell Oxy. He’s not into drugs. Mostly breaking into places and stuff. I’m telling you, if you’re looking for narcos, you got the wrong guy.”
Jake let go of Mikey’s shirt and smoothed it into place. “We’ll see, Mikey. Word is he’s taking over drugs in the area.”
Mikey gave Jake a dubious look and then took a sideways step. “You’ll leave us be now?”
“As long as you aren’t lying to me, you have nothing to worry about.” Jake pointed a finger at Mikey’s nose. “You don’t want me to have to come back.”
Mikey shook his head.
Jake glared at the other punk a moment, then turned and stepped into the hallway. The door closed behind him, the chain rattled, and Jake smiled grimly to himself.
Now all he had to do was find Dewey Hicks and make him talk.
Wednesday, 6:00 p.m.
LISA KRUNK STOOD in the wings of the Channel 7 Action News studio and watched the monitor as teasers ran for upcoming news stories. Her piece would be the lead, as usual, and though it was bound to be compelling due to her expertise in bringing the public stories they yearned for, it wasn’t as groundbreaking as she’d hoped.
She was having second thoughts about her deal with Annie. There was no doubt in her mind revealing Jake as a wanted fugitive would’ve rocked the city, and rocking the city was what she did best. And if one of the other news outlets happened across the information and released it to the public, for the time being, she’d look like a fool, especially considering the news she was about to break.
But when all was said and done, she should come out the winner. She was convinced Jake was innocent, and she’d lose some of her hard-earned credibility if she announced his guilt to the city and was proven wrong.
The news anchor appeared on the monitor, and Lisa held her breath when he announced her story. A full-length shot of her came on the screen, with the Richmond Hill General Hospital sign prominently displayed in the background as she spoke:
“Citizens of Richmond Hill were shocked earlier this week at my announcement of the shooting of Merrilla Overstone. My investigation revealed Overstone was a loan manager at the Commerce Bank, the financial institution robbed a day prior to her shooting.
“After I revealed the undeniable link between the two events, police explored the situation further. Though the suspect wanted for both the robbery of Commerce Bank and the shooting of Mrs. Overstone is yet to be named, I’m assured an arrest is imminent. Reliable sources tell me a manhunt is underway and has been for the last thirty-six hours.
“Since the shooting on Tuesday, Mrs. Overstone has remained in intensive care, kept under close watch. Police had hoped her testimony would bring an end to this unfortunate situation, resulting in the arrest of any third party who might’ve been involved in, or have knowledge of, either crime.
“However, it now appears the situation has become further complicated. I’ve been told that within the last hour, Merrilla Overstone has succumbed to her injury. She passed away quietly without further comments that might aid police in their hunt for the perpetrator.
“I spoke to Niles Overstone earlier today, when Merrilla’s husband expressed support for his wife. At that time, he had announced she’d been diagnosed with pancreatic cancer a year ago and may now have as little as a few weeks to live. Whether or not her illness contributed to her unfortunate death is unknown at this time.
“In light of the passing of Merrilla Overstone, I’ve decided it would be best to air the interview with a minimum of editing.”
Lisa turned away from the monitor. She’d heard Niles Overstone’s story once too often already, and she hoped it wasn’t too boring for her listeners. She’d heavily edited the interview, taking out the worst parts—the segments where Overstone had droned on and on ad nauseam about his wife’s virtues and how much they loved each other.
After editing, what remained of the lengthy interview would be sufficient to give the best impact. It would be sure to coax out a few tears from among a certain segment of her audience. That was always good for ratings.
But what bothered her the most was, now that Mrs. Overstone had died, the police would no doubt intensify their hunt for Jake. She feared they would announce his name to the public, and her deal with the Lincolns would vanish.
And though she found it hard to admit, she did owe the Lincolns a big favor. If she could find a way to get to the bottom of this and help Jake out, that would repay what she owed them and secure her deal at the same time.
She’d have to give it some thought, and she would undoubtedly come up with an idea she could run with bright and early in the morning.