Текст книги "Personal Justice"

Автор книги: Rayven T. Hill

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Chapter 34

Thursday, 9:22 a.m.

AS TIRED AS HANK had been the night before, he was robbed of sleep by the perplexing facts of the case running through his mind. He’d risen early to get a fresh start, and though he’d been up for a couple of hours, he felt he was making little headway.

A call to King to see if the detective found any information on the drug heist went unanswered. A quick study of his notes revealed nothing new, and to make matters worse, a plugged sink in the bathroom wasted a half hour of valuable time.

He downed a quick breakfast, made a short phone call to Amelia over coffee, and was raring to go.

He gathered up the stacks of notes, reports, and folders, and stuffed them into his briefcase. After fastening his service weapon in place, he headed out the door, determined to make the day count.

His old Chevy clanked and banged when he turned the key. It had served him faithfully for several years, but by the sounds of the engine, he would need a new vehicle before long. Not an easy thing to do with only a cop’s salary and the small car allowance RHPD allowed him.

When he arrived at the precinct, he parked behind, made a mental note King’s car wasn’t there, and hoped the detective was doing something productive for a change.

The precinct was in high gear when Hank stepped inside. Cops leaned over their desks, or consulted with one another. Captain Diego’s face was buried in paperwork, and across the room, Callaway squinted at his monitor.

The heat of the day was already infiltrating the room, the useless air conditioner doing little except rumble, and Hank made a mental note to talk to Diego about replacing the worn out piece of junk.

He headed for the break room. This was starting to be a bad day. Someone drained the coffee pot and left it turned on. Hank started a fresh pot. At least he knew it would be palatable, not like most of the rotgut sludge he had to endure when someone else made it.

Things took a turn for the better when he got to his desk, sat his coffee down, and spied the medical examiner’s report regarding the murder of Michael Norton, sitting dead center on his desk. Beside it lay the preliminary ballistics report. He sat and pulled up his chair, booted up his computer, and flipped open the folder containing the ME’s findings.

The listed cause of death was not surprising—a gunshot wound causing exsanguination. Norton bled to death after catastrophic injury to the heart.

The manner of death was homicide—that was obvious, and Nancy concluded Norton was killed elsewhere, perhaps a half hour prior to being dumped near the railroad tracks.

The interesting part was the trajectory of the bullet. Gunshot residue indicated it had been fired from a distance of eighteen to twenty-four inches and entered the body at a thirty degree downward angle.

Hank did some quick calculations, and as far as he could tell, the victim had been either standing or kneeling when shot. Norton might’ve been tied to a chair, or on his knees, begging for his life when the fatal bullet entered his body.

An examination of the back of the victim’s shirt revealed small nicks and tears with ground-in dirt, consistent with the body being dragged a distance. To Hank, that meant Norton had been transported there in a vehicle, then dragged across the ground and deposited by the bushes. There was no other explanation he could see.

There were also lesions on the arms, face, and hands—nicks, bruises, and abrasions, probably defensive wounds, or at the least, an indication of a struggle.

Norton had fought and begged for his life and lost.

Blood alcohol levels, as well as blood and urine drug screens, were negative.

He closed the folder. Nothing else in the report revealed anything unusual, but he would go over it again later.

The ballistics report revealed exactly what Hank expected. The weapon Norton carried was the same one that fired the fatal bullet into Werner Shaft.

The bullet lodged in Norton’s heart was also .38-caliber, fired from a different weapon than the one found on the body. The ballistics ID system returned a negative. It was another unregistered weapon, never before used in a shooting as far as the system could tell.

That was all Jameson had for him at the moment. Hank hoped to see the rest of the findings later in the day. He was especially interested in the possibility of tire tracks and any trace evidence recovered from the scene. With the lack of surveillance cameras anywhere in the area, and no witnesses to be found, he hoped for something solid from forensics.

Hank looked up as Callaway approached his desk and handed him a sheet of paper. “I got the bank records on Rocky Shaft you requested. There’s an interesting withdrawal.”

“Thanks, Callaway.”

Hank took the paper and glanced at it. Callaway had highlighted a withdrawal for six thousand dollars cash from Shaft’s bank account on Tuesday morning. Could that be to pay off the hitman? Punky Brown had never been paid, but Brown indicated the fee for his services was five thousand. More circumstantial evidence? Perhaps. But what was the extra thousand for?

“Anything else you need, Hank?”

Hank looked up at the young cop. “Not right now. I’m sure there’ll be something later.”

Callaway returned to his desk as the precinct doors swung open and Detective King swaggered in. The grin on his face revealed he had something to share. He waved a finger at Hank, strode to the break room, took his sweet time about making a coffee, and then approached Hank’s desk.

Hank sat back and watched patiently as King settled into a chair and stretched out, one sneakered foot resting on the corner of the desk. King hadn’t shaved again this morning. He always managed to have three day’s growth on his face, even after he shaved. It was a mystery even Hank couldn’t solve.

King sipped at his coffee. Hank waited some more.

“Harland Eastwood,” King said at last.

King had a way of dropping names as if making a big reveal, and then waiting for a response before explaining.

Hank took the bait. “Who’s Harland Eastwood?”

King took another sip and sat his cup on the desk. “One of the druggies robbed by Shaft and his friends.”

Hank sat forward and rested his arms on the desk. “Does Eastwood know who robbed them?”

“I haven’t talked to him yet,” King said. “I got the name from a CI. Had to get him out of bed.”

Hank sighed lightly, shuffled the papers on his desk, and remained patient.

King continued, “Seems like all these criminal types sleep until noon. Guess that’s what happens when you’re up half the night.”

“Does your informant know where to find Eastwood?”

King pulled a scrap of paper from his shirt pocket and waved it. “Got the address.” He handed it to Hank.

“Rough part of town,” Hank said, after looking at the paper. “You’d think if they were big-time drug dealers they could afford to live in a better place.”

“Apparently, Eastwood is a flunky. Not one of the big shots. Does deliveries, pickups, that sort of thing.”

Hank frowned. “That’s the best you could get? A flunky?”

“He might not be top brass, but if he knows anything, it’s gonna be easier to get something from him.”

Hank swept the reports into a pile, dropped them into his briefcase, and stood. “Let’s go see if we can find this Eastwood character.”

Chapter 35

Thursday, 10:24 a.m.

JAKE WAS STRETCHED out on the couch, a cushion under his head, his hands tucked behind it. The television was on and muted, but Jake wasn’t watching it. He stared at the ceiling, sorting through the facts, devising a workable plan of attack.

Though Rocky Shaft appeared to be the obvious suspect for Norton’s murder, Jake wasn’t so sure. However, the revelation by Shaft’s neighbors regarding a possible affair was foremost in his mind.

It seemed to Jake, other than the affair, Shaft was trying to hide something and money played a big part in it.

He swung his legs to the floor, stood, and went into the office. Annie was typing furiously at the keyboard, and when he entered, she stopped and looked over at him.

He approached the desk and perched on the corner. “I thought I might go see Rocky Shaft,” he said.

“That suits me fine. I got the cell phone number of one of Michael Norton’s neighbors from Hank, and I have an appointment to visit her at her work at noon, during her lunch break.”

“Great. Then I’ll see you back here this afternoon. I’ll call you if I come up with anything interesting.” Jake gave her a quick peck on the lips and left the office.

He unplugged his cell phone from the charger, slipped it into a holder on his belt, and grabbed his car keys from a hook by the door on the way out.

The Firebird purred like a tiger under control when he turned the key. He looked at his watch; Shaft should be at work, and if not, Jake wanted to know why.

Richmond Distributing sat on a couple of acres surrounded by a chain link fence. A pair of warehouses occupied much of that space, the rest taken up by parking areas, tractor-trailers, and shipping containers.

From the information he’d gleaned online, Jake knew the company did local and national distribution for a number of organizations, as well as drop-shipping services for a variety of mail-order and online firms.

Driving onto the property was not much different from going to the mall. There was no gate, no security, and the public was always welcome to visit the showroom displaying a range of items for retail purchase.

Jake parked in one of the guest spots, grabbed an official looking baseball cap from the back seat, and walked around behind the largest building to the shipping doors at the rear.

A row of vehicles was parked along the back fence and Jake spied a red Ford pickup. That would be Shaft’s vehicle. He wandered over and checked the license plate to be sure. It was Shaft’s. He would be in the building somewhere.

A trailer was backed up to the loading dock and the hum of a lift truck could be heard unloading skids of merchandise to be redistributed. A man door beside the dock was propped open by a concrete block, and from where Jake stood, workers could be seen engrossed in their tasks.

He stepped inside and looked around. No one paid him any attention; perhaps they assumed he was a truck or local delivery van driver.

Jake didn’t know where he would find Shaft. He only knew he worked in the shipping department. Half of the enormous room was filled with rows and rows of shelving, skids piled three layers high, and mounds of shipping material. Shaft could be anywhere.

The entire right wall of the building was one long counter, weigh scales and postage machines at intervals, where pickers filled orders for shipping to individuals and small companies. Shaft wasn’t among those preoccupied workers.

To his left, on the far side of the loading dock, Jake spied a small office. He waited for a lift truck to rumble by, then strolled across the floor and peered into the room.

Rocky Shaft sat at a small desk, filling out some forms. He seemed to have become shipping manager in place of his brother. Certainly the promotion would not be a motive for murder, just a logical step for the company to take in light of Werner’s demise.

Jake tapped on the open door. Shaft looked up and his face darkened. He tossed his pen on the desk, spun around, and glared at the visitor. “What do you want?”

Jake disregarded the surly tone and smiled politely. “I want to talk to you about your brother.”

Shaft’s voice took on a calmer tone. “What about him?”

“Norton didn’t kill him,” Jake said.

Shaft remained quiet a moment, then, “Norton killed my brother. I have no doubt about that, and all the evidence proves he did.”

“Evidence can be planted.”

Shaft shrugged. “And who planted the evidence?”

“Maybe you.”

Shaft slammed a fist on a table. “Are you accusing me of killing my own brother?”

“I’m not accusing anyone,” Jake said calmly. “I’ll let the evidence speak for itself.”

“Fine. Let the evidence speak and it’ll show I had nothing to do with it. You’re making accusations based on nothing.”

“Not exactly nothing,” Jake said. He paused and watched closely for Shaft’s reaction. “Did your brother know you were having an affair with his wife?”

Shaft flew from his chair and took a step toward Jake. His left fist clenched, a finger of his other hand pointing at Jake. “I’m not having an affair, and you know it.”

“According to witnesses, you are.”

Shaft folded his arms. “What witnesses?”

“You can drop the pretense, Shaft,” Jake said. “You might as well admit it.”

Shaft pointed toward the door, his face red. “Get out of here.”

“Maria admits you’re having an affair,” Jake said.

Shaft dropped into the chair, bewildered, frowning. He glared at Jake a moment, then, “Just go.”

Jake noted there was no second denial, just more anger. He took a chance. “I know where the money is, Shaft.”

“What money?”

“From the drug heist.”

A frown took over Shaft’s brow and his eyes narrowed. “I don’t believe you.”

Jake shrugged. “You don’t have to believe me. I’m only giving you a heads-up. You aren’t the only one who knows where it’s hidden, and certain people love to talk.”

Shaft stood again, took two steps toward Jake, and stopped. “I don’t have to speak to you or answer any of your questions. I’ve done nothing wrong.” He reached forward, poked Jake in the chest, and spoke in a low, menacing tone. “Get out of here.”

Jake didn’t budge. “I know you killed Norton and I can prove it.”

Shaft’s face flushed with anger. “You have no proof because I didn’t kill anyone.”

“I also know Maria’s in on it,” Jake said. “She knows the whole story.”

“Leave Maria out of this. She knows nothing about anything.”

“You’re quite protective of her, aren’t you?” Jake said.

Shaft’s nostrils flared and he jutted his chin. “Of course I am. She’s my brother’s wife and she wouldn’t hurt a flea.”

“Thanks for your time,” Jake said, as he turned and stepped outside the office door. He waved a hand. “See you later, Shaft.”

The door slammed behind him. Jake turned back and put his ear to the door. He could make out Shaft cursing, then a few moments later, a murmuring voice. Shaft was on the phone with someone, perhaps Maria.

Jake went back outside and nodded at a worker coming through the door. The truck was pulling away from the loading dock, another one waiting to back in.

He hurried to the front of the building, hopped in his car and drove it around back, parking it five slots past Shaft’s pickup. He jumped out, moved to the rear of the property, sat on the grassy strip along the fence, leaned back, and brought up his knees.

Though Shaft’s face told otherwise, he didn’t admit to the affair. And if his words were any indication, he came close to admitting he knew about the money. Whether or not he killed Norton, Jake didn’t know, but one thing he knew for sure, Rocky Shaft was involved in this somehow.

He had riled Shaft up pretty good, and if Shaft was as anxious as Jake assumed he would be, then the angry man was going to make a move, and make it soon.

Chapter 36

Thursday, 10:43 a.m.

HANK TURNED the steering wheel and eased the Chevy onto Auburn Street. To the right, small houses that had been the standard for modern family homes in bygone days, now stood as examples of decay, neglect, and abuse.

Across the street, decrepit tenements and graffiti-clad low-rises lined the inner-city street. According to the address King had obtained, Harland Eastwood lived in one of them.

King peered through the passenger side window as the vehicle rolled over potholes and bulging asphalt. “Pull up here,” he said, waving toward the curb. He pointed to one of the buildings. “That’s the place.”

Hank pulled over, shut down the engine, and they stepped out. Litter swam by his feet as a sudden breeze came up, whirling dust and debris in and out of the gutter.

A pair of lethargic women lounged in lawn chairs on a postage-stamp lawn. With nothing better to occupy their time, they watched curiously as the cops crossed the street and approached the ravaged building.

Home to the idle poor, the unemployed, and the squatters, the ancient two-story building was doomed never to see a much-needed makeover. Rather, when the booming city demanded more space, these buildings would be leveled, and gleaming new high-rises to house the middle class would take their place. The poor would be pushed out, forced to huddle elsewhere.

King pushed open the door leading into a darkened lobby. The door squealed as it scraped against the tiled floor and remained open.

“Upstairs. 204,” King said, striding across the lobby to a set of concrete and metal steps leading upward.

Hank followed him to the second floor where the top of the steps opened into a short hallway. A musty smell filled the close, warm air, mixed with what could be human waste or something an animal left behind. It filled Hank’s nose, and he could taste it on his tongue.

They walked the tattered and stained carpeting to the end of the hall and stopped in front of 204.

King tapped on the door. There was no answer.

He tapped again, waited a moment, and then rammed the door with his shoulder. It held.

Hank grabbed King’s arm. “You can’t do that. We have no probable cause, and no warrant to search this place.”

King spun to face Hank. “We’re not going to search. Just talk.” He wrested his arm from Hank’s grasp and rammed the door again. Wood splintered and crackled as it burst inward and slammed against the inner wall.

Hank was growing tired of King’s cowboy attitude. He would always have his partner’s back, but Hank was determined to make it clear, he wasn’t going to put up with King’s illegal antics much longer.

“Relax, Hank,” King said, as he stepped into the apartment.

If it were possible, the stench inside the room was worse than the hallway. Human sweat, and something like the smell of rotting fish, greeted Hank as he followed King in.

His eyes roved over the contents of the one-room apartment, not much more than piles of old clothes, fifty-year-old furniture, and cast-offs of all kinds.

Across the room, a man clad only in boxer shorts, a beer belly hanging over his waistline, struggled to a seating position on a caved-in couch. His dark, sleep-filled eyes were wide, and the mouth on his oval face hung open.

“What the—”

King interrupted. “Harland Eastwood?” he asked, pulling back his shirt to reveal the badge fastened to his belt.

“I didn’t do nothin’,” Eastwood said, brushing back his stringy, dark hair.

King looked down at the startled man, “That’s not what I hear. Possession of drugs with intent to traffic.” King’s eyes roved around the room. “I bet if I looked around a little, I’d come up with something.”

“Where’s your warrant?” Eastwood asked, sitting back and folding his arms.

“We have probable cause,” King lied.

Hank nudged King aside and turned to Eastwood. “Look. We just want to ask you a couple questions then we’ll go. We can forget all about drug possession charges.”

Eastwood’s eyes narrowed. “What kind of questions?”

“About the guys you work for.”

“I’m unemployed.”

“Great,” Hank said. “Then you won’t mind talking to us about your ex-boss.”

Eastwood gave a blank, confused stare.

“We want to know about a drug money heist that went down a few months ago,” King said. “Talk to us and we were never here.”

“Mind if I get dressed,” Eastwood asked. He leaned forward, reached down, and picked up a pair of faded jeans beside the couch, then stood and slipped them on. He pulled a wrinkled t-shirt from a pile and worked it over his head.

“What d’you wanna know?” the man asked, tucking his hands into his pockets.

“Who pulled the heist?” Hank asked.

Eastwood shrugged. “Nobody knows.” He paused. “As far as I can tell, that is.”

“Somebody must know.”

“Maybe. But if so, they didn’t tell me.”

“How much money was taken?” King asked.

“About five hundred large. Least, that’s what I heard.”

“How many gunmen?”

Eastwood cocked his head. “You mean, how many guys robbed them?”

“Yes. How many?”

“Three.”

“You’re sure?” Hank asked.

“Positive. There were three.”

“Because you were there, weren’t you?” King asked.

Eastwood said nothing.

King reached out and pushed Eastwood onto the couch. “You were there, right?”

Eastwood looked up at King. “Maybe.”

Hank touched King’s arm. “It doesn’t matter. All that matters is if he’s telling the truth.”

“It’s the truth,” the man said.

“Did you recognize any of them?” King asked.

Eastwood shook his head adamantly. “They wore masks.”

“And your boss has no idea who it was?”

“Not that I know of.” Eastwood tilted his head slightly. “Why do you guys care about this? If drug money gets stolen, why are the cops involved?”

Hank looked at King, and then back at Eastwood. “Because one of the guys we think pulled the robbery is dead. Maybe two. And we want to know who killed them.”

Eastwood’s eyes darted back and forth between the two cops. “I hope you’re not looking at me for that.”

“Should we be?”

“Of course not.” Eastwood swallowed hard. “And I don’t think my boss was involved either or I would’ve heard about it.”

“Don’t you mean your ex-boss?” King asked.

“Yeah. That’s what I meant.”

“You can tell your ex-boss when you talk to him, probably as soon as we leave, if he killed anyone, we’re coming for him.”

Eastwood moistened his lips. “I’ll … I’ll tell him.”

“One more question,” Hank said. “Did the robbers use pistols or rifles?”

“Pistols.”

“.38’s?”

“Don’t know.”

Hank looked at King. “Anything else?”

“Yeah, maybe,” King said, and looked at Eastwood. “Stay out of trouble because I might not overlook your indiscretions next time.” He paused. “But you can always get ahold of me if you find out anything else. That might earn you a get-out-of-jail-free card.” King pulled out a business card and flipped it onto the couch. “You can always reach me here.”

Eastwood glanced at the card, then back at King. “I ain’t a snitch.”

“Keep the card anyway. You never know when it might come in handy,” King said, and turned to Hank. “Shall we let this guy get back to his beauty sleep?”

Hank nodded, then turned and left the apartment. King followed, pulling the broken door closed behind him.

Hank whirled around, put a hand on King’s chest, and pushed him against the wall. He moved in close and scowled. “You can do whatever you want on your own time, but when I’m around, we do things right. Next time, we knock. We don’t go busting doors down.” He paused. “Got that?”

King nodded and said dryly, “Whatever you say, Hank.”

Hank narrowed his eyes, glared a moment longer, then straightened King’s collar and turned away. “Let’s get out of here.”