Fugitive Justice (19 page)

The doorknob rattled and he sprang to a sitting position. His instinct had been correct. Someone was out there, and it wasn’t Merrilla, and they didn’t belong in his house.

He leaped out of bed, fully awake now, and glanced at the window. Whoever was coming into his bedroom would be inside in a matter of seconds, and it would take him a lot longer than that to get the window open and climb outside.

Racing across the carpeted floor to the open double-width closet, he dove inside and cowered back against the wall, hidden behind a row of clothes his wife would never need again.

The bedroom door squeaked, and he held his breath, his heart pounding in his chest. He heard muffled breathing, then a grunt and a curse as the intruder no doubt had discovered the empty bed.

His thoughts raced at high speed. It had to be Jake Lincoln coming to finish the job. For the same reason Lincoln had killed his beloved wife, whatever that reason was, he had now come to kill him as well.

Then footsteps sounded on a tile floor; the killer had gone to the master bathroom. He heard the faint sound of the shower door opening, and he had but a moment to spare.

Niles sprang from the closet, brushing two or three dresses off the rod in his haste to escape. Wire hangers rattled together as they hit the floor, and for a moment, his feet became tangled in his wife’s precious belongings he’d so carelessly knocked from their perch.

Kicking the clothes free, he dove for the open doorway leading into the upstairs hallway. The intruder shouted something he didn’t understand, and as his bare feet hit the slick wooden floor of the hall, Niles slipped and landed on his hip, causing him to cry out in pain.

The fall might’ve saved him, at least for the time being. A bullet whistled through the space his head had occupied a moment earlier. A window shattered at the end of the hallway as the projectile burst through the glass and continued on.

He rolled once, twice, his head smashing against the solid base of the oak banister leading down to the main level of the house. It stunned him for a second, and he caught a brief glimpse of the shooter, now in the process of swinging his gun hand toward him.

His assailant’s head nearly touched the top of the doorframe as he lined his weapon up for another shot. It was Jake Lincoln. The man’s face was hidden in shadows, but the heavily muscled arms and the broad shoulders were a dead giveaway.

Rolling again, Niles tumbled down half a dozen steps, his soft pajama bottoms gaining no traction on the polished wooden stairs. Then, with the aid of the railing, he managed to come upright. He staggered downward and leaped the last three steps, his naked feet slapping against the hardwood floor at the bottom of the stairs.

The killer’s shoes pounded on the steps above him, and the weapon exploded again. Somewhere behind him, Niles heard the zing of the bullet as he dashed for the kitchen.

He tripped on a rug at the entrance to the room and fell forward, gliding across the ceramic floor. His head came to rest against the back door that led to the yard outside and his best chance of escape.

He scrambled to his feet, then realized he’d never make it out. He was directly between the door and the shooter. A third shot would be sure to finish him before he could manage to remove the chain, unlock the door, and get outside.

For a brief moment, he considered giving up. That would be the easiest way out of the dreadful mess life had thrown at him. He could join his wife in a better place, where his emotional turmoil would vanish. He had nothing to live for now, anyway.

His better judgment took over, and he glanced around in desperation.

He had left his cell phone in the bedroom, not thinking of anything but escape at the time. He looked at the landline on the kitchen wall. There was no chance to make a call, and there was no one who could help him in time. He was on his own.

The killer’s hurried footsteps drew closer. How could Niles possibly protect himself from a murderer with a loaded weapon?

He couldn’t, and his only chance to live would be to run or to hide. But there was no place to hide in the kitchen. He’d have to run.

He leaped across the island, hit the floor on the other side, and raced for the adjoining living room. It circled around to the kitchen again, and the shooter could bide his time and come at him from either direction.

The front door of the house was securely locked. He wasn’t about to spend his last precious moments fumbling with the lock, only to be shot down like a dog and left to die alone in his own blood.

Niles dove out of sight behind an easy chair and came to a crouch, closing his eyes in an attempt to still the panic. His rasping breath sounded like thunder. His heart raced. His mind spun furiously, hoping to come up with a way out of his desperate situation.

But there was no way out.

The gunman’s footsteps sounded in the kitchen, then the soft squeal of leather on wood as they came closer. The awful sound stopped, and the killer breathed, in and out, in and out, and Niles held his breath and prayed.

He knew Lincoln had been here before and probably knew every entrance and exit. But Niles had taken precautions to double-lock every door and make sure all the windows were fastened.

From where Niles crouched, he could see the door leading to the basement. It was closed. If the shooter had entered the house through a basement window, he surely would’ve left the door open to make a fast exit.

The kitchen window had been closed, the back door securely locked. The bathroom window was barely large enough for a child to crawl through, let alone a man of Lincoln’s size.

That left only two possible means of entrance—the office and the spare bedroom.

The office faced the front of the house—not exactly a stealthy means of entrance, especially during early daylight hours.

Lincoln had to have entered through the window of the spare bedroom.

If Niles stayed where he was, he’d surely die. If he tried his dangerous and desperate plan, he might live.

There was no choice.

He braced himself, tensing his leg muscles, then took a deep breath and shot to his feet, springing out from behind his only protection.

The shooter whirled and swung his weapon toward the sudden movement.

Niles would have but a split second to spare. Any longer, and he might feel the stinging bite of a bullet in his back, bringing him down and dying at the murderer’s feet.

He spun down the short hallway, now momentarily out of the view of the gunman, desperately hoping his analysis of the mind of the killer had been correct.

Otherwise, he was as good as dead.

Without slowing, he dashed through the open door of the spare bedroom and leaped.

Straight through the open window.

He hit the ground hard, bruising a shoulder, then stumbled to his feet as another bullet zipped past his head.

Two seconds later, Niles had reached the sidewalk. He looked back over his shoulder as he raced up the street. The killer had retreated.

He was bruised and frightened half to death, but he was going to live.

Chapter 31

Thursday, 7:32 a.m.

HANK SAT AT THE kitchen table in his apartment, sipping at his second cup of coffee, when his cell phone rang. Niles Overstone had been accosted in his home by a would-be killer but had managed to escape, calling 9-1-1 from a neighbor’s house. Hank was needed at once.

The news was disturbing. They’d allowed the distraught man to return home after the death of his wife, only to have his house broken into and his life threatened. And to make matters worse for Overstone, his house would be sealed up again. And this time, no doubt entry would be barred until the case had been cleaned up.

The entire block would be canvassed in the hopes someone might’ve seen something or someone suspicious in the area. It was unusual a crime of this nature would’ve taken place at that time of day, but with this case, anything was possible.

CSI would still be at the crime scene, and Hank looked forward to their report. He’d take a walk through the scene later, but first, he wanted to talk to Overstone.

Hank looked at his watch. The timing was perfect. He was about to head to work in a few minutes, anyway.

He dumped his half-finished coffee into the sink along with his breakfast dishes, then strapped on his service weapon, grabbed his briefcase, and left the apartment.

On his way to the precinct, he thought about what this new development meant to his theory. Though there’d been no evidence of Overstone’s involvement in the shooting of his wife, he’d still remained a viable suspect, perhaps connected to it in some way yet unknown.

But now that the man’s life had been threatened, what did that mean?

Had the murderer of Merrilla Overstone returned to kill Niles? Or was the man involved somehow, and there was another reason for the attempt on his life?

Or a more disturbing possibility was that the alleged attempted murder was a cock-and-bull story created by Overstone to throw suspicion away from himself. There were no known witnesses to the invasion, and perhaps there was no one out to get him at all.

Hank was also disturbed the information regarding Merrilla’s cancer hadn’t been shared with him earlier. Though the surgeon had later confirmed it was not a contributing factor to her death, it was a small piece of information he’d like to have had.

When Hank arrived at the precinct, he approached Yappy, sitting at reception. He was informed Overstone was in interview room one with an officer. The man was in the process of filling out a written statement.

He was surprised to see Detective King at his desk. His partner would also have received a call notifying him of the attempted murder, and though King still looked half-asleep, at least he’d made the attempt to get here without delay.

He went to King’s desk and dropped into a chair. “What do you make of the shooting?”

King tossed the papers he was browsing onto the desk and sat back. “Dunno. I thought Overstone hired a hitman to kill his wife.” He shrugged. “Now I don’t know what’s going on.”

“Package for you, Hank.” The voice came from Yappy, and he approached the desk and handed Hank an envelope personally addressed to him at RHPD.

“Thanks, Yappy,” Hank said. He turned the envelope over in his hands, then borrowed King’s letter opener and slit it open. He pulled out a small brown package and peered inside, then dumped a pair of keys onto the desk and frowned at them.

“Safety deposit box keys,” King said. “Who’s it from?”

“No return address.”

“Nothing else inside?”

“Nope.” Hank leaned in and squinted at one of the keys, then pointed. “There’s the Commerce Bank logo.”

“Commerce Bank,” King said. “That’s the bank that was robbed.”

“Yup.”

“And that’s where Merrilla Overstone worked.”

“It sure is, and I’m betting these keys will fit nicely into one of the boxes from that branch.”

King tilted his chair back and dropped his feet onto the edge of the desk, crossing them at the ankles. “Wonder what’s inside.”

“Why don’t you go and find out? You should be able to obtain a warrant by telephone.” Hank dropped the keys back into the envelope and tossed the package to his partner.

King dropped the keys into his shirt pocket, then stood and turned to leave.

“Get back as fast as you can,” Hank said. “It might be important.”

“Will do.”

Hank took his briefcase to his desk and set it beside his chair. He needed to talk to Overstone personally, but he would give the man half an hour to finish with his statement, and if King was back by then, so much the better.

Half an hour later, King still hadn’t returned. Hank decided to start the interview without his partner and see where it led.

He went to interview room one and stepped inside the open door. An officer greeted him, handed him a folder, then left the room.

Niles Overstone was leaning forward at the metal table with his head down, his elbows on the table, and his face in his hands.

Hank dropped the folder onto the desk, then pulled back a chair opposite the man and sat down.

Niles lowered his hands. His once-youthful face looked haggard and old. Visible tear tracks ran down his face. He wiped the moisture away with the palm of his hand and looked at Hank through bloodshot eyes.

If Overstone was faking his grief, he was doing a good job.

“Mr. Overstone,” Hank began, observing the man as he spoke. “I’m very sorry to hear about your wife.”

Overstone gave a slight nod.

“I realize this is hard for you, but I have to ask you a few questions.”

Another nod.

“First, did you happen to get a glimpse of the man who shot you?”

Overstone’s eyes narrowed. “It was Jake Lincoln.”

Hank wasn’t expecting to hear that. He was becoming more and more convinced of Jake’s innocence.

He leaned forward and laid his arms on the table. “Are you sure? Did you see his face?”

“It was him.”

“Are you saying you saw his face clearly?”

Niles shook his head. “No. I didn’t see his face.”

“Then how can you be sure?”

“By his size. His build. It had to be him. He killed my wife. Who else could it be?”

Hank sat back. “That’s a good question.” He felt a small amount of relief Overstone couldn’t positively identify Jake, but nonetheless, the news was disturbing. There was no point in asking the man who else might be out to get him. He was already convinced it was Jake.

He opened the folder and scanned Overstone’s statement. Though the handwritten information went into detail, taking up two full pages, he didn’t see a mention of Jake’s name.

Hank closed the folder and looked at Overstone. “You obviously can’t go home right away,” he said. “Do you have a place to stay?”

“I think I’ll go back to Richmond Inn for now. Wanda, my wife’s sister, offered to put me up. She’s been a big help to me lately, but I’d sooner be alone right now.” He paused and his eyes glazed over. “My … wife’s body was released last night, and Wanda started funeral arrangements immediately.”