Fugitive Justice (21 page)

Annie let out a whistling breath. “That’s a great motive,” she said, then added, “But it doesn’t clear Jake.”

“Nope. And it also doesn’t implicate anyone else. It’s not proof of any wrongdoing. Just a possible motive.”

Annie had hoped something more earth-shattering would’ve been found in the box. Though it was a minor letdown, the information seemed to be swaying Hank’s way of thinking. And if it eased the pressure off Jake, allowing him to move about more freely, it was a good thing.

“Hank, there’s something else I need to talk to you about. When Jake told you he’d taken pictures of the intruder at the Overstone house, he wouldn’t lie about that. Why would he? It would be one of the dumbest things he ever did. I’m sure someone deleted them. And I’m sure it was the same person who planted the burner phone under the seat of the car.”

“You can’t prove a negative,” Hank said. “Absence of evidence is not evidence of absence.”

“Quit with the philosophical stuff and listen,” Annie said. “I happen to know anything deleted off a hard drive is not deleted. Only the catalog information that points to the files is gone. As long as nothing else is written to the drive in the meantime, the files aren’t overwritten. They can be recovered. Wouldn’t the same hold true for a flash drive?”

Hank was quiet a moment, then said, “Sounds reasonable, but I don’t pretend to be an expert. I can run it past Callaway. He’s not in today, and there’s no one else who can do what he does. But I’ll get him to take a look at it first thing tomorrow morning.”

“And if it works out, Hank, I hope you’ll seriously consider Jake’s story.”

Hank sighed. “Annie, my dear friend, I do seriously consider Jake’s story. It’s the lack of proof I have a problem with. I have nothing to back up what Jake said happened, and I can only go with what the evidence shows. I wish I could call off the dogs, but I can’t. But rest assured, most of them aren’t actively pursuing the hunt for Jake.”

“Then recover that drive, and have a good look at that insurance policy. And there’s one more thing. I’ve heard from a reliable source a man named Ace is neck-deep in this.”

“Any last name?”

“No. Just Ace.”

“Did your reliable source tell you where I could find this Ace fellow?”

“No, but I was hoping you could do some digging and come up with something. It’s a dead end for me.”

“There’s nothing much I can do without a last name, Annie. I’ll take a look at it, and I’ll run the name past the other guys, but tell your reliable source to be careful out there. If Ace is a killer, he’ll kill again to protect himself from being found out.”

“I’ll tell him,” Annie said.

“Is there anything else?”

“Not right now.”

“Then let me get back to work on this,” Hank said, then he was gone.

Annie hung up the phone thoughtfully. Progress was slow, but it seemed they might be getting somewhere at last. And if Jake could stay out of danger, and the police didn’t nab him, she was confident everything would work out in the end. Whenever that was.

She was startled when the phone on her desk rang, and this time it was an unknown number.

“Lincoln Investigations.”

“Is this Annie?”

“Yes.”

“Annie, this is Detective Benson. My partner, Detective O’Day, and I, uh … had occasion to hear that Jake’s looking for a guy named Ace.”

Annie sat forward. She knew Benson and O’Day quite well, and she knew Jake did, too. “Nice to hear from you, Detective. Did you find out who and where this Ace character is?”

“First of all, Annie, this call’s strictly confidential. I’m calling you against my better judgment.”

“You couldn’t have had any better judgment,” Annie said. “And you never called me.”

Benson chuckled and said, “We did a little digging around, and I believe we have a line on Ace. We can’t look into any of this personally, and I can’t confirm it’s the right guy, but a source told us Ace hangs out at a poolroom north of the city on occasion. Apparently, a lot of punks hang out there.”

Annie’s heart was beating fast. “How sure are you it’s the right man?”

“I’d count on it. It took a little grease, but our source finally told us that last week, Ace was boasting about a bank job he was considering. And he hangs out in the neighborhood of the bank that was robbed, so it’s too coincidental to be anyone else but the right guy.”

“Do you have any idea what he looks like?”

“Tall. Muscular. Good-looking.”

“That’s him,” she said, grabbing a notepad and pen. “What’s the name of the poolroom?”

“Backstreet Billiards,” Benson said. “But be careful, Annie. Our source was practically shaking in his boots and looking over his shoulder when he gave us the information. Apparently, Ace has a violent streak that keeps his cronies in line, and he might be extremely dangerous.”

“I’ll be careful,” Annie said. “I really appreciate this, Detective.”

“Don’t mention it,” Benson said, then paused. “And I mean that. Don’t ever mention I called you.”

Annie smiled. “I won’t.”

“Whatever you do with the information is strictly up to you.”

“Got it.”

The line went dead. Annie hung up the receiver, then picked it up again and dialed Jake’s number.

There was no answer, and she waited, letting it ring.

There was still no answer.

Perhaps Jake was busy with something, or maybe his battery was dead. She’d try again later.

For a moment, she considered paying a visit to Backstreet Billiards. She decided against it, at least for the time being. She’d be too conspicuous in a place with the kind of reputation Benson had described, and it might scare away any chance of finding Ace. Besides, she had nothing on the suspect except the word of a cop whose name she couldn’t repeat.

She could tell Hank, but then, he’d have no reason to question the suspect at length, and he had nothing substantial they could use to detain him.

She’d have to let Jake handle it. If only she could get ahold of him.

She tried his number again. No luck.

Jake would contact her as soon as he was able to, of that she had no doubt, but it didn’t lessen her worry or keep her from thinking the unthinkable.

Chapter 34

Thursday, 1:48 p.m.

ACE WASN’T HAPPY about having to make another trip downtown. At least, not right now. He had somewhere to be later in the afternoon, and it was important he show up on time.

Though his guys were too weak-minded to take care of it themselves, he was pleased they had his back, contacting him regarding the problem he now faced.

His carefully laid plans were getting messed up by one simple fact—Lincoln was still on the loose and causing him major headaches. He couldn’t understand why the police hadn’t nailed the guy yet. Surely, now that Lincoln was wanted for two murders, the lazy cops would’ve brought him in. Or better still, gun him down and save Ace the trouble.

And to make matters worse, he was feeling sore about his pathetic attempt to wipe out Overstone. He’d expected it to be a three-minute job. No more than five. He should’ve been out of there before Overstone had known what’d hit him. But when all was said and done, he was certain the guy hadn’t seen his face. So that was a good thing.

Though there’d been no real harm done in the grand scheme of things, he was kicking himself for being so anxious about the whole Overstone situation. There really hadn’t been any hurry to off him. He could always return later and do the job at his leisure, and the results would be the same.

And he never should’ve trusted Hicks, either. The scumbag had talked. It hadn’t taken him long to find that out, and as a consequence of Hicks’s big mouth, Lincoln was gunning for him. So, first things first. He had to take care of the PI. Immediately.

Lincoln was a force to be reckoned with, and though his tenacity was admirable, he had to die. Then this whole affair should die with him. Cops don’t usually go out of their way to prove a dead man innocent. Especially when they’re already convinced he’s guilty.

He was pretty sure Lincoln wasn’t armed. He knew the guy was a stickler for the rules, and since private citizens, even PIs, can’t carry weapons, it made the life of a criminal so much easier.

And it was gonna make killing him a breeze.

It wouldn’t be hard to find Lincoln. The guy’d been poking his nose into every bar and late-night establishment in town. One of Ace’s underlings would be sure to spot him before long, then it would be lights out.

He pulled his bright red 2007 Mustang into the lane behind Gully’s Bar and frowned. His favorite spot was taken by a run-down pickup. He parked further down the lane, then got out and carefully locked up his car. He stopped a second to buff some dust off the hood, not sure why he bothered. The thing was a piece of junk, anyway. Rust all over it.

He strode to the rear of the building and faced the back entrance to the bar. According to his flunkies, Lincoln had been hitting Gully’s on a regular basis, and he was liable to show up here at any hour of the day or night. Maybe he was in there now. Better be sure.

Ace pulled out his cell phone and dialed. “I’m outside. He in there?”

“Nope. Been watching for him, though. Ain’t showed up yet.”

“I’m coming in.”

He hung up and stuffed his phone away, then pulled open the door and stepped inside. His crony sat at a table near the back of the room. Ace snapped his fingers at the bartender, then sauntered to the table and dropped into an empty chair. He had a good view of both doors and the rest of the room.

He glanced at the scrawny punk beside him, frowned, and slid his chair away. The guy smelled like yesterday’s sweat, his foul odor overpowering even the stale smell of the barroom.

“You need a bath, Harley. You stink.”

Harley shrugged. “I don’t smell nothin’.”

Ace slapped a cigarette from his pack, lit it up, and took a couple of long drags. Smoke curled up and soon caught in a lazy fan overhead, dissipating in the close air. It helped cover Harley’s stench. Or maybe he was already getting used to the smell.

The bartender set a foaming glass of beer on the table and nodded at Ace, then went back to the bar. Ace watched him go. He had everybody well trained.

Pool balls cracked together at a table close by, where two dippy-looking punks played for a quarter a ball. Neither one of them knew how to make a decent shot. If he weren’t preoccupied at the moment, he’d show them how it was done.

Half-drunk slobs leaned over tables, drinking up their welfare checks. More were glued to stools at the bar. Some sickening eighties tune droned on endlessly in the background.

And Ace sipped at his beer in silence. Waiting.

~*~

JAKE TUGGED ON THE heavy wooden door leading into Gully’s Bar. He was looking for that punk Dewey Hicks again. He’d given the guy a day to dig up the whereabouts of Ace, but it seemed like Dewey wasn’t about to come through.

Or maybe the guy was afraid to put in an appearance until he had something. Either way, Jake wanted to talk to the useless delinquent again.

He stepped inside and glanced toward the bar. He’d been in here so many times now, the bartender had stopped giving him the curious eye. This time Jake received a quick look, then the proprietor yawned and went back to his job of trading watery beer for cold hard cash.

A pair of guys played pool near the back. Jake squinted through the dim room at a couple more sitting not far from the pool table. One was a skinny runt, and the other was slouched down, a bold red cap pulled forward on his head. Long legs stretched out in front of his body.

Jake had never seen either one of them before.

And Dewey Hicks wasn’t around.

The skinny guy got up and wobbled on spindly legs toward Jake. He stopped, cocked his head toward the rear door, and spoke in a squealing voice. “Hicks wants to see you. He’s out back. Afraid to show his face in here.”

Jake frowned and glanced toward the back of the room. The other guy’s arms were crossed on the table, his head resting on top. He’d probably drunk himself to sleep.

He looked back at the scrawny punk and gave a short nod, then followed him out the back door.

Skinny crossed the lane and turned back, ogling Jake, a dry smile splitting his thin face.

Jake looked around. “Where’s Hicks?”

Skinny stepped toward him a couple of feet, crossed his arms, and glared into Jake’s eyes for a few seconds. Finally, he said, “Hicks ain’t here, but Ace wants to meet you real bad.”

“And I’m right here.” The voice came from directly behind him. It had to be Skinny’s companion—the guy with the red cap.

It was Ace.

And Ace was pressing a gun into the back of Jake’s head.

In one split second, a million thoughts went through Jake’s mind. He’d found Ace, or more accurately, Ace had found him.

But Jake knew the cold steel muzzle leveled at the back of his head wasn’t as much of a threat as it seemed to be.

Most guys, like the punk behind him, couldn’t hit a barn door if their nose was pressed against it. At least, that’s what Jake was hoping, and he was going to give his theory a try. It was better than standing still and waiting for a slug to enter his skull.

He reacted before Ace’s small brain could work out what was happening. He dropped to a crouch, then swung around and pushed forward with his powerful leg muscles, slamming his full weight into the gunman.

They both went down. The gun spun through the air, landing with a clunk at Skinny’s feet. Jake rolled and sprang forward.

He missed the weapon, but Skinny didn’t.

But Skinny didn’t know what to do with the thing. While he fumbled to get his finger on the trigger, Jake lunged. He gripped Skinny’s bony wrist and wrenched it backwards, freeing the weapon from the guy’s feeble grasp with his other hand while the pathetic punk cried out in pain.

Jake stepped back, and Skinny scrambled away.

Jake let him go and spun back toward Ace. But the coward was gone, beating a path down the lane, already nearing the next street.