Authors: Rayven T. Hill
“Then where are they? They weren’t in the car or in the house. We have everything he was wearing and everything he was carrying. And why was there no blood spatter on his clothes? Mrs. Overstone was shot from a short distance away. All that was found was GSR. That’s consistent with Jake’s story.”
“What about Merrilla Overstone’s verbal statement?”
“She had to have been delusional. If the real killer looked like Jake, she might’ve been confused. When you have a bullet in your chest, it’s hard to think straight. And the guy who IDed Hicks’s killer couldn’t make a positive identification. And neither could anyone at the bank robbery.”
“I’m totally with you, Hank,” King said. “I just don’t know how we can prove it.”
Hank sat forward. “By helping Jake find the real killer.”
“Jake’s a wanted man. We’ve been skirting around it now, but if we have contact with him, and we don’t make an attempt to arrest him, that’s not exactly protocol. As you know, both of us could lose our jobs for that.”
“Look, King, we don’t need to have any contact with him. But Annie’s convinced it’s a guy named Ace, and so is Jake. Don’t forget, he tried to run Annie off the road. We have enough to bring him in for questioning, but I need to find out who he is first.” Hank paused and took a sip of his coffee. “I’m going to tell Diego I need to withdraw from the case for personal reasons, then take a few days off and figure this out.”
“And you want me to take over the investigation?”
“That’s the idea.”
King shrugged. “If you think that’s the best way to go, I’m game.”
Hank stood. “I’ll talk to Diego. He should be here by now.”
Diego was in his office when Hank returned to the precinct floor. “Can I see you a minute?” Hank asked, tapping on the open office door.
The captain hung his jacket on a hook and turned around, waving Hank in. He straightened his tie, sat behind his desk, and leaned forward. “What is it, Hank?”
Hank sat down and paused a moment before speaking. He hoped he was doing the right thing. “Captain, I need to withdraw from the Overstone case. It’s too personal for me.”
Diego frowned. “I don’t have anyone else who can handle it.”
“I talked to Detective King. He’s willing to take over.”
“Hank, you know King as well as I do. He has some good points, but he lacks drive. And he lacks finesse.” Diego leaned back and removed his cap, setting it on the desk. He smoothed back his dark hair. “This case is personal for us all, Hank.”
“Then I’m asking you to withdraw the manhunt for Jake and we can all sort this out together.”
“I can’t do that. In fact, I’m a little disturbed Jake hasn’t been brought in by now.” Diego cleared his throat. “I’m planning a press conference at noon to announce it to the public, and I’m going to personally see efforts to find him are doubled.”
“Can’t you give it another twenty-four hours, Captain?”
Diego shook his head adamantly. “Can’t do it. This has gone on long enough. And if that Hicks character is connected to this case, then we have enough bodies on our hands already.” He leaned forward and pointed a finger. “I can’t let you withdraw from this case. That’s not an option. Nobody withdraws from any case unless I tell them to.”
Hank tried once more. “I need to take some vacation time, Captain.”
“After this is over, you can take all the time you want.” Diego paused and spoke in a flat voice. “Sorry, Hank. I need you on this.”
“Yes, Captain,” Hank said. He stood and blew out a long breath. “I’ll get back at it.”
Hank left Diego’s office and glanced at Callaway. The young cop was leaning into his monitor, tapping furiously on the keyboard. If there was anything to be found on the memory card, Callaway was the one who could find it.
He went into the break room, where King sat in the same spot, now holding a half-eaten blueberry muffin in one hand.
“Diego won’t allow me to withdraw,” Hank said, dropping into a chair.
“Not surprised. And you can bet he’s gonna be keeping an eagle eye on you from now on. On both of us.”
“Then we’ll have to do this by the book,” Hank said. “And if we don’t come up with something soon, Jake’s gonna be in big trouble.”
Friday, 9:13 a.m.
JAKE OPENED THE door to Backstreet Billiards and stepped inside. The place had just opened and it was dead. Paying customers would come later in the day, and the punks would show up again when the sun went down.
An elderly man was tying a big green garbage bag he’d pulled from a can near the front counter. Litter on the floor awaited a nearby vacuum cleaner, soon to be put to good use. A whistling fan in the center of the room cleared away the stale smell of yesterday’s cigarette smoke. Music played softly in the background.
The man set the bag aside and looked up as Jake approached. “Morning,” he said, flashing a grin and revealed a gaping hole where a tooth should have been.
“Morning,” Jake said. “I’m looking for a friend. I’m hoping you can help me.”
The man straightened and scratched his balding head, studying Jake’s face. “You don’t look like a guy with friends who’d hang around here.”
Jake grinned and pulled the photo of Ace from his back pocket. He held it up. “He’s not exactly a friend, but I need to find him.”
The man squinted at Jake. “You a cop?”
“Private detective.”
“Can’t say as I’ve ever seen him,” the man said, looking back at the photo. “Don’t look familiar.”
Jake pulled out his cell phone and tapped his way to Skinny’s picture. He zoomed in on the face and held it up. “What about this guy?”
The aging man pursed his lips a moment, then nodded. “Seen him around sometimes during the day. Probably comes in mostly in the evening. I don’t work the evening shift. Too rough and noisy around here.” He glanced around the room and shrugged. “I like it quiet.”
“Do you know his name?”
“I might.” He paused and frowned at Jake. “Might know where he lives, too. Trouble is, they don’t pay me enough here to remember stuff like that.”
Jake shoved a hand into his pocket and removed what money he had left. He peeled off a twenty and held it out. “This help you remember?”
The man took the bill and held it up to the light, then stuffed it into his shirt pocket. “Seems to be coming to me now,” he said. “He hangs around with another guy a lot. Heard them talking one day. He lives in an apartment building, and the only one round here is next street over. Name’s Harley.”
“First or last?”
“Last.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yup.”
“Any idea where he works?”
The man chuckled. “Guys like him don’t work. Maybe at nighttime, if you know what I mean.”
Jake knew what he meant. “Thanks,” he said, turning to leave. “You’ve been a big help.”
“Hey, mister,” the man called. “You ain’t gonna go blabbin’ about who told you, are you?”
“Not a word,” Jake said.
He stepped outside, not sure exactly how to proceed. But he knew where Harley lived, and that was a start. He looked at his watch. The guy was a night owl and would probably still be sleeping.
That was good.
Jake hurried around the block to the next street and gazed at the two-story building where he hoped Harley lived. The building was about as run-down as a building can be, blending in perfectly with the rest of the neighborhood.
The building had no security lock, and when he stepped inside, he was disappointed to see there was no directory of tenants in the lobby. Harley could be in any one of the ten or so units. He hoped somebody knew which one the punk lived in.
A sign on the door of apartment 101 notified him that was where the superintendent lived. It was the best place to start.
He banged on the door and it opened a minute later. A middle-aged man tightened the belt of his housecoat and looked at him through bleary eyes.
“I’m looking for Harley,” Jake said.
The man pointed a thumb toward the ceiling. “Upstairs. Top of the steps.” Then the door closed.
Jake took the steps two at a time and stopped in front of the first door. He twisted the knob. The door was locked. He knocked.
No answer.
He waited a moment and knocked again.
“Who is it?” a sleepy voice called.
“It’s Ace,” Jake said, hoping his imitation was good enough to do the trick.
It was. The doorknob rattled and the door moved inward, and the skinny punk spoke. “What’re you doing up so early?”
Jake pushed the door open all the way and stepped inside. Harley moved back and blinked a couple of times, then his eyes widened when he realized who it was.
“You’re gonna tell me where I can find Ace,” Jake said. He took a handful of Harley’s t-shirt and rammed him against the wall. “And you have about three seconds to tell me.”
Harley cowered back. His eyes darted around, then he looked up at Jake towering over him. His voice quivered. “Ace’ll kill me.”
“Not if I kill you first.”
The skinny punk glanced toward the door, then back at Jake.
Jake released his hold and wrapped his fingers around Harley’s throat. “You’re running out of time,” he said, tightening his grip to make his point.
Harley remained silent, glaring and blinking.
Jake squeezed a little harder, hoisted the punk up almost off his feet, and held him firmly against the wall.
Harley gasped for air and held up a hand in surrender. “Okay. Okay.”
Jake let go and straightened his back, crossing his arms.
Harley bit his lip. “Two twenty Crestwood.”
“Does he live alone?”
“He … he lives with his mother.”
Jake frowned. “What’s Ace’s real name?”
“Just Ace. That all everybody calls him.”
“Last name?”
“Irish. Ace Irish. That’s all I know.”
Jake narrowed his eyes and leaned in. “If you tell him I was here, then I’ll have to come back.”
Harley nodded frantically.
Jake leaned down closer and glared into Harley’s eyes. “I mean that.”
Harley kept nodding.
Jake glared at the skinny punk a little longer, then turned and left the apartment. Harley’s door slammed as Jake hurried down the stairs.
He made his way back to Crestwood Avenue. The house at 220 was on the same side of the street as the pool hall, and a couple of blocks further down. He stopped across the street from the house and studied it.
A tumbledown garage stood near the rickety bungalow, its roof sagging and ready to cave in. A narrow gravel lane ran between it and the house. At the front of the dwelling, a pair of windows faced the street. He watched the windows a moment and saw no movement.
Jake crossed the road, pushed open the unlocked access door to the garage and peered inside. The building was empty. Continuing on, he went up the lane beside the house, then stopped short at the corner of the building. A red Mustang sat at the back of the house. It was the rusty pile of scrap he’d seen downtown the day before.
Ace was home.
This was the guy who’d set him up, who’d endangered his family, and who’d killed at least three people in cold blood. Jake wasn’t about to knock politely. Not when he had a better idea.
Harley had said Ace lived with his mother, and if the punk didn’t work, someone had to pay the bills. Jake was betting Ace’s mother was at work, and the lazy punk was home alone.
It was time to find out.
And if his dangerous plan didn’t work, Jake could be in a bigger mess than he already was.
He stepped onto the unsteady deck at the rear of the house and faced a door. It was locked, and he decided after this, he might get Annie to show him how to pick a lock. But for now, he had no choice but to use brute force.
It wouldn’t need a lot of effort. The lock was old, the frame was rotting, and he was determined.
He was already wanted for murder, so what harm could a little illegal entry do?
Jake put his shoulder to the door, braced his feet, and pushed. He felt it give. This was gonna be a breeze. He pushed harder and wood crackled, groaned, and the door gave way.
Then a security chain stopped it.
Nothing but a minor annoyance.
He braced himself again, tensed his leg muscles, and pushed. The chain broke free and the door burst open. He grabbed the knob and stopped the door from crashing backwards into the wall, then stepped into the kitchen.
Friday, 9:43 a.m.
ANNIE HURRIED across the precinct floor and dropped into the guest chair at Hank’s desk. The cop looked up as she slid an envelope toward him. “I need you to find out who this is ASAP,” she said.
“Good morning, Annie,” Hank said. “Nice to see you, too.” He picked up the envelope and slipped out the photo. “Who’s this?”
“It’s Ace.”
Hank raised an eyebrow. “The guy who tried to run you off the road?”
“Yes.”
Hank gave Annie a dubious look. “Where’d you get this?”
“He was at Merrilla Overstone’s wake. Lisa gave it to me.”
Hank frowned. “What’s this guy’s connection to all this?”
“He’s not only the guy who tried to kill Matty and me, but I believe he’s the man who robbed the bank, shot Mrs. Overstone, and tried to kill Niles Overstone.”
Hank whistled and squinted at the photo. “He does look a lot like Jake.”
“Can you find out who he is?”
“We’ll run it through facial rec. If he’s in the system, we’ll soon see.” Hank spun his chair around and rolled over to Callaway’s desk, then beckoned toward Annie a moment later.
Annie went over and sat across from the young cop. The photo of Ace lay on the desk, and Callaway pointed to it. “I’ll run that in a minute, but I have something to show you first.”
He turned his monitor so Annie and Hank could see. “I was able to recover some pictures from the memory card,” he said. “The card’s rather fragmented. You’ve been using it for a while, but the most recent pictures were almost all fully recoverable.”