Authors: Rayven T. Hill
The dumb guard had finally realized a woman’s life was worth a little more than a lousy stack of money.
The robber stepped back as the guard ambled forward, still playing around with the keys in his shaking hands. He selected one, held it up, and moved toward the door.
The guard slipped the key into the lock, keeping one uneasy eye on the robber. He fidgeted with the key, gave it a turn, then stepped back.
Finally.
The robber let go of the woman and spun toward the door.
Without warning, the guard moved in, one hand reaching for the robber’s weapon, the other tugging the mask down over his eyes. It pulled him off balance and disoriented him, and he couldn’t see.
He managed to hold on to his gun, and he swung the other arm toward his attacker. He missed. He made a fist and swung again, only managing to whack his own hand against the wall, sending a ripple of pain up his arm.
While fumbling to find the door, he struggled with his free hand to work the mask into place. A sudden blow to the side of his head stunned him. He recovered and adjusted the mask again, but he still couldn’t see, and where was the door? The guard was gonna beat him into the ground if he didn’t do something and do it soon.
Desperate now, he pulled the mask off, let go of the woman, and swung his pistol hand toward the guard. The butt of the weapon connected with the side of the guard’s head, knocking him to a groaning heap on the floor.
The guard hadn’t seen his face, but there were cameras all around, and he was pretty sure everything was being recorded. He had to keep his head down and get out of there as fast as possible.
He jammed the mask into his pocket and turned to leave. Too late. His hostage had stepped back, her hand to her mouth, and her startled eyes looked up into his exposed face.
He stared back, his mind running at lightning speed through the current state of events.
And the current state of events told him he was screwed.
Unless …
He looked at the guard on the floor, then at the woman in the cubicle as she peeked out from behind her desk. Both she and the manager were too far away to recognize him again, but the hostage was a different story.
He raised the pistol and sighed, then mumbled, “Sorry,” and shot her in the head.
Five seconds later, he was running down the alley, the faint sound of sirens coming from far away. He cursed his luck and wondered how his wonderful plan had gone so wrong.
Monday, 5:35 p.m.
ANNIE LINCOLN slipped a sheet of freshly baked buns onto a cooling rack and was pulling off her oven mitts when the doorbell rang. She finger-combed her midlength blond hair into place, then took off her apron and hurried to answer the door.
When she opened it, a cop stood outside, a big grin on his face. Except, right now he wasn’t a cop, and he wasn’t Detective Hank Corning, homicide detective.
He was just Hank, and he was early for dinner.
“Hi, Hank,” Annie said. She smiled at the tall woman beside him. “It’s nice to see you again, Amelia.”
“Thanks for having us over,” Amelia said. “Hank’s told me a lot about your cooking.”
Annie laughed. “I’ve heard about Hank’s cooking, and compared to it, anything would be better.” She motioned for the visitors to come in and herded them into the living room.
Amelia took a seat on the couch under the window and crossed her legs. At thirty-eight years old, with long blond hair and smiling blue eyes, she was remarkably beautiful. The large sum of money her husband had left when he’d died a few years ago hadn’t changed her. Though she’d been used to big money all her life, she still retained the small-town, girl-next-door attitude that’d caught Hank’s heart.
The two had met several months ago on a case Hank had been working on with the Lincolns, and they’d hit it off almost from the first glance.
Hank ran a hand through his short-cropped hair and dropped his six-foot frame down beside Amelia. Though he was good-looking and always a gentleman, in contrast to her, he was just an ordinary guy who lived in an ordinary apartment and was broke most of the time.
In Annie’s opinion, the two were a perfect couple. She settled into her easy chair and wondered what was taking Hank so long to pop the question.
Hank dropped an arm on the back of the couch. “I didn’t see the Firebird. Is Jake here?”
“He should be back soon,” Annie said, glancing at her watch. “His car’s in the garage and he took mine. He’s on a stakeout, but he said he’d be home before six.”
Though Annie knew stakeouts were Jake’s least favorite chore, they were an important part of the vocation she and her husband had chosen.
Not so long ago, Jake had been a construction engineer for one of Canada’s largest land developers. At the time, Annie had been doing part-time research for a variety of companies from her home office. When the business Jake worked for had gotten into financial difficulties, he’d been laid off.
He’d moped around the house a few weeks, then one day approached Annie with the idea of expanding her growing business and taking on the name of Lincoln Investigations. Annie had decided it wouldn’t hurt to give it a whirl.
Their new venture had required they take the proper course, get PI licenses, and pass police background checks. Several weeks later, they’d designed and printed new letterhead, gotten a dedicated phone line, and proudly displayed their diplomas on the office wall.
Lincoln Investigations had been born.
Though routine searches for missing persons, background checks for businesses, and research for legal firms were still their mainstays, they’d found themselves involved in several high-profile cases. Dangerous people of all kinds had crossed their paths. With the help of their growing relationship with RHPD, Lincoln Investigations had successfully tracked down some of Richmond Hill’s worst criminals.
“Looks like you have a visitor,” Hank said, glancing out the front window. “Somebody in a white Corolla.”
Annie laughed, a twinkle in her eye. “That’s Jake, and he’s driving my new car.”
Hank raised his brows and looked at Annie with deep brown eyes. “You got a new car?”
“Yup. Picked it up this morning.”
“It’s about time. That old Escort must’ve been on its last legs.”
Annie chuckled. “Jake took good care of it. It’s got some miles left in it yet. I’m sure the new owner will appreciate it a few more years.”
The front door rattled, then closed. “Saw your Chevy out front, Hank,” Jake called from the foyer. “Figured you’d be here by now.”
Annie turned her head as a six-foot-four-inch man came into the room and leaned against the doorframe. He had a crooked grin on his face, and once again, Annie couldn’t help but notice her husband was the best-looking guy she’d ever seen. And thanks to his intense daily workout, he had a body to match.
“Heard you were on a stakeout,” Hank said.
“Yeah, but nothing came of it,” Jake said with a shrug. “Some guy said his wife was picking up men in bars every day while he was at work. I followed the woman to the mall, to a friend’s house, then to a bakery before she went home. If she’s having an affair, I can’t figure out how.”
“Maybe she’s taking a day off,” Hank said with a chuckle.
“I think the guy’s paranoid,” Jake said. “She’s about twenty and he’s in his forties. Nothing wrong with that, but perhaps he feels insecure.” He shrugged. “Who knows? I’ll keep at it until he’s satisfied. As long as he’s willing to pay.”
“Hey, Uncle Hank.” A four-foot-tall bundle of energy charged into the room and ran to the cop.
Hank grinned and leaned forward, giving the eight-year-old arrival a fist bump. “Hey, Matty. It’s great to see you.”
Matty stood back and gave Amelia a polite, shy smile, then dropped to the floor and sat cross-legged, leaning against the wall.
A quiet ringing sound filled the room.
“It’s mine,” Hank said, reaching for his inner pocket. He pulled out his cell phone and had a brief conversation, then put his phone away and sighed.
Amelia looked at him, a quizzical look on her face. “They need you?”
Hank nodded and blew out a long breath. “There’s been a bank robbery at Commerce Bank. The robber escaped, but not before killing a hostage.” He shrugged and moved forward, sitting on the edge of the couch, and gave Annie an apologetic look. “I gotta go. Sorry, Annie.”
“Duty calls,” Annie said as she stood.
“Sure, but I was looking forward to a nice home-cooked meal. Now I’ll have to settle for a quick burger on the way there, and probably won’t get home until after midnight.”
“I’ll drop Amelia home later,” Jake said. “And now you know why I didn’t wanna be a cop.”
Jake and Hank had become friends early in their high school years, and during that time, the duo had become an inseparable trio when Jake had discovered Annie. After high school, Hank had hoped Jake would go to the police academy with him and become a cop. For some reason, Jake had been more partial to Annie, and had elected to go to University of Toronto along with her.
Their friendship had endured, and Annie was pleased to add another female to the group of friends. Amelia fit right in.
Hank stood and helped his girlfriend to her feet, and she and Annie saw the cop to the door. After giving Amelia a quick kiss, he dropped her hand and stepped outside.
“We’ll do this again as soon as you can,” Annie said.
Hank glanced back and nodded in agreement, then waved a hand and hurried to his car.
Annie watched the detective drive away. He was in for a long night.
Monday, 6:16 p.m.
HANK MADE A CALL to Detective Simon King on his way to the crime scene. His occasional partner was filling his face at a fast-food joint near his apartment, and he told Hank he’d meet him at the bank as soon as possible.
Though it occasionally took King a while to get moving, with the proper nudge, he was reasonably dependable. In fact, King had already arrived and was climbing from his vehicle when Hank reached the scene and pulled in beside his partner’s car.
King slammed his door, tugged his t-shirt into place, and tucked a hand into a pocket of his faded jeans. The cop looked pretty much the way he normally did. Long greasy hair dripped down from under a faded baseball cap. Three days’ growth of beard decorated his lean face. The badge fastened to his belt was the only way anyone could identify him as a cop.
King had originally been a narc, but a few months ago, for reasons not shared with Hank, he’d been transferred from Toronto, where he’d spent a lot of time undercover. RHPD was small, and the homicide division even smaller. Captain Diego had seen fit to team up the unlikely pair to tackle the increasing workload as the small Canadian city expanded, and crime grew along with it.
Hank got out of his vehicle and glanced around. Curious passersby lined the street near Commerce Bank, craning their necks to get a better view of what might have gone on inside the building. A handful of officers milled about near the yellow border, making sure none of the inquisitive citizenry breached the barrier.
The CSI van was parked nearby, investigators no doubt documenting the scene in painstaking detail. The coroner’s vehicle sat near the front doors of the building, ready to transport an occupied body bag to the medical examiner for further examination.
Hank turned and nodded at King, and the two detectives ducked under the tape and made their way into the front door of the bank.
Directly inside and to their right, the body of a woman lay in an unbecoming position, her handbag still over her shoulder, and a bag of groceries at one side. She lay on her back, one leg twisted unnaturally under the other. A small amount of blood had seeped from an unsightly wound in the middle of her forehead.
No doubt she was the unfortunate hostage, chosen by an uncaring Lady Luck.
Hank had seen a lot of needless death in the fifteen years he’d been a homicide detective. Often the victims had brought on their own deaths by involving themselves with dangerous people. Gang wars and drug wars produced even more bodies. Occasionally, death came by sheer stupidity, or perhaps at the hand of a jealous spouse or lover. But the thing that tore at his heart was when an innocent person found themselves in the wrong place at the wrong time, resulting in their untimely death.
Hank glanced up a couple of inches into the eyes of a tall, gaunt-faced man holding a clipboard in one hand. He was lead investigator Rod Jameson, and he spoke to Hank in a deep drawling voice.
“The vic’s name is Arlina Madine,” Jameson said. “Fifty-three years old. We haven’t tracked down any family yet, but we’re working on it.”
Hank nodded. “Keep me informed.”
“Sure, Hank,” Rod said.
Hank crouched down and gazed into the victim’s graying face. The appearance of the wound told him she’d been shot at point-blank range, probably from no more than eight or ten inches. The projectile had exited her skull from the rear, and an investigator was in the careful process of extracting it from where it was embedded in the wall between a pair of ATMs.
Perhaps it would tell Hank a story.
“Anyone see the killer’s face?” King asked Jameson.
Jameson pointed into the main area of the bank. “Haven’t talked to the witnesses yet.”
Hank stood and followed King’s gaze. Three women occupied comfortable guest chairs lining the wall opposite the teller windows. Hank assumed they were the witnesses, huddled out of the way until their story could be told. A fourth woman, dressed in a smart business suit, paced in a small circle, casting occasional glances toward the newcomers.
“Guess we’d better talk to them and send them home,” Hank said. “But I want to view the video first.”
Jameson pointed again, this time toward the pacing woman. “She’s the manager.”
As Hank and King approached the woman, she stopped her nervous pacing and came toward them, introducing herself. Hank asked to see the video, and she led them down a short hallway and into a small room. A block of four monitors was positioned on the wall above a long table, showing a live feed of the inside of the bank from a variety of viewpoints.