Fugitive Justice (5 page)

He reached for his cell phone in the holster at his waist and came up empty. It was in the car. He hesitated a moment, then turned to leave. Another groan from the direction of the kitchen spurred him on, and he turned back and crept forward silently, one careful step after another, as the low groaning continued.

He neared the kitchen, hugging the wall, and peered around the doorway. On the far wall, a door led outside, and it was ajar. The shooter had most likely run out the back way. However, there was a possibility he might still be in the house somewhere, maybe even on the other side of the kitchen, and Jake wasn’t taking any chances.

He heard a gasp for breath, and he took a step forward, crossed the hallway, and peered into the kitchen. He stopped short in the doorway, and his eyes popped at the sight in front of him.

The gunman’s victim lay flat, blood pooling on the floor, streams of red filling the cracks between the ceramic tiles.

It was Merrilla Overstone.

Jake’s mouth hung open a moment, and he stared at the woman, a million questions running through his mind.

What was she doing here? The last time he’d seen her was at the coffee shop, and the woman had said she was heading for work. And where was her husband? Perhaps he was in the garage at this very moment, making his getaway. But if that were the case, Jake would’ve heard the car start and the garage door open.

Something was amiss, and it didn’t make sense.

The woman wheezed and fought for air, jarring him out of his thoughts. She looked at him and attempted to speak, a gurgling sound coming from her throat as she forced out one word.

“Why?”

Her voice was barely intelligible, and she gasped for another breath.

Jake dashed forward and crouched beside the woman, pulling back a flap of her jacket. Her snow-white blouse was stained red, the crimson patch continuing to grow. As far as Jake could tell, she’d been shot at close range, the bullet entering her body somewhere in the vicinity of her heart.

And the shooter had dropped the gun in the woman’s lap, leaving the weapon behind before making his getaway.

But Merrilla was still alive, and as long as she was, Jake had to do whatever he could to keep her that way. He was no expert at gunshot wounds, and he had no idea whether or not the bullet had exited her body on the other side. All he could do was stop or slow down the bleeding as much as possible.

He ran to the cupboard and pulled open two or three drawers before he managed to find a towel, then he knelt beside the victim, folded the towel, and pressed it to the wound.

“Hold it there. Hold it tight,” he said, looking into Merrilla’s fading eyes. “Can you understand me? I have to call 9-1-1.”

She gave a weak nod and moved her trembling left hand upwards, placing it over the towel. He put his hand on hers and pressed down. “Hold it as tight as you can,” he said, then, satisfied she was, he glanced around the kitchen for a landline. He didn’t see one, and he turned back to the victim. “I’ll be right back.”

He stood, anxious to get his cell phone. As he turned to leave, he glanced down with dismay as Merrilla fumbled for the weapon and wrapped her hand around it. She raised it toward Jake, and her hand trembled as she struggled to put her finger on the trigger.

“Why?” she managed to say, her voice but a whisper. “Why?”

The woman had mistaken Jake for the man who’d shot her, and now she was about to shoot him in retaliation.

He ducked to one side, then crouched down and brushed her hand aside, grabbing her by the wrist. She clung to the weapon, her hand shaking, and he tried to ease it from her weakening grip. As she struggled to retain her hold, the gun fired, the shot almost deafening him as a bullet whistled over her head and burrowed itself in the wall somewhere in the next room.

Then her grasp weakened, and he managed to peel her fingers back and retrieve the weapon.

The back door slammed.

Jake’s head shot up, and he sprang to his feet, racing across the kitchen. He whipped the door open and leaped out onto the back deck.

He looked around frantically, but the gunman was nowhere to be seen. Whoever had slammed the door couldn’t have gotten away that fast, and Jake decided the breeze blowing through the house from the open front door had created a wind tunnel, causing the back door to close. Nothing else made any sense. If the shooter had been hidden in the kitchen and ran outside, the last thing he’d do was close the door behind him.

Jake glanced around again, scrutinizing the area in case his theory was wrong. His gaze came to rest on a woman’s bulging eyes. She was on the adjoining property, crouched behind a low hedge fifteen feet away. Only the top of her head and her startled eyes could be seen.

He stood unmoving and stared back a moment, unable to think straight, not sure what to say or do. Jake assumed the neighbor had heard the shot and come to investigate. He hoped she’d called the police already. He wanted to get back to Mrs. Overstone. She couldn’t afford to lose much more blood.

Then the woman’s eyes dropped down, and her open mouth opened further as she inhaled sharply and stared at the pistol in Jake’s hand.

He looked down at the weapon, then back at the woman, and took a careful step forward. He stopped when she let out a weak, gasping scream.

“It’s not what you think,” he called. “It’s not my gun. Please, call 9-1-1. Mrs. Overstone has been shot.”

The woman blinked rapidly a few times, then scrambled to her feet and scurried away. Jake heard the rear door of her house close. He shook his head and went back inside, set the weapon on the kitchen table, and crouched down beside the victim.

He gazed into her pain-filled eyes. “The ambulance is on its way,” he said. “You’re going to be all right.”

Merrilla Overstone fought for air. Her eyes drooped, quivered a moment, then they closed and she lay still. Jake felt her pulse. It was weak, and her breathing was shallow, but she was still alive.

“You’re going to be okay,” he repeated, praying he was right.

Chapter 8

Tuesday, 10:58 a.m.

HANK WAS AT HIS DESK in the precinct when he got notice there had been a shooting. The victim had survived and had been rushed to the hospital. First responders had secured the area, and he was expected at the scene.

The last thing Hank needed was another case. He was neck-deep in his investigation of the bank robbery and the subsequent murder, and it looked like he’d be putting in a lot of overtime for the foreseeable future. As head of RHPD’s small robbery-homicide unit, the responsibility was his.

He spun his chair around. Detective King was at his desk, and he appeared to be doing some work for a change. Hank went to King’s desk and glanced over the cop’s shoulder, surprised to see the detective was studying Buck’s statement taken at the bank robbery.

“We have a shooting,” Hank said, waving a sheet of paper. “An attempted murder. CSI’s already working the scene.”

King closed the folder and tossed it onto the desk, then straightened his back and looked at Hank. “We’ll take your car.”

The two detectives left the precinct and made their way to the parking lot at the rear of the building.

“The shooting’s at 166 Mulberry Lane,” Hank said as he climbed into his Chevy. “Apparently, there’s a witness. A neighbor. She didn’t know the victim’s name, but she believed her to be the homeowner.”

“Mulberry Lane,” King said. “That’s in a ritzy part of town.”

Hank shrugged and turned the vehicle onto the street. “Not that ritzy. More than I can afford, though.” He glanced at King. “And more than you ever will.”

“I have no desire to live in that part of town, and I don’t think a whole lot of the people who do.”

Hank smiled inside. Mulberry Lane wasn’t far from where Amelia lived, but he wasn’t about to tell his partner that.

A few minutes later, Hank eased down a side street and pulled in behind a line of police cars. There was no question as to where the shooting had taken place. Halfway down the block, an entire lot had been secured by crime scene tape. A pair of officers chatted on the front lawn. Another cop was leaning against the wall by the front door of the house.

The CSI van was parked into the driveway, its side door hanging open.

Hank and King ducked under the tape, made their way to the front door, and donned shoe covers before entering the foyer. Hank stopped short when a familiar voice greeted him from the living room. “Hey, Hank. What brings you here?”

Hank turned and did a double take. Jake stood in the middle of the living room floor, a grin on his face, tight-fitting white coveralls covering him from ankles to neck.

“What’re you doing here?” Hank asked, a cross between a smile and a frown on his confused face. “And what’s that getup you’re wearing?”

Jake shrugged. “CSI took my clothes.”

Hank’s expression didn’t change. “Whatever for?”

“They have to check them for GSR, and this jumpsuit was all they had for me.”

Hank was more confused than ever, and it was several minutes and several pointed questions later before Hank understood the situation Jake had gotten himself into. But the thing that continued to confuse him was the revelation that the victim’s name was Merrilla Overstone.

Hank turned to King. “If you recall, Merrilla Overstone is a loan manager at Commerce Bank. I interviewed her after the robbery. She’s the one who ducked down behind her desk.”

It was Jake’s turn to be confused, and he glared back and forth between Hank and King, a perpetual frown on his brow.

King crossed his arms and scowled at Jake. “What’s this all about? Do you know something about the robbery you’re not telling us?”

Jake’s frown deepened and he stared at King in disgust. “I have no idea what’s going on. I was hired to do a job, and I’m as mystified as you are.”

“Don’t go anywhere, Jake,” Hank said. “I’m gonna need your complete statement.” He turned to King. “Let’s take a look around and see if we can figure out what went on here.”

“I got some pictures of the killer entering the house,” Jake said. “My camera’s in the car.”

Hank turned back and looked at Jake in surprise. “I’m gonna need those.”

Hank followed King to the kitchen, sidestepped an evidence cone marking a pool of blood in the middle of the floor, and approached Rod Jameson.

“They tested Jake’s clothes for GSR,” Rod said, his deep voice filling the room. “The results are positive. And his prints are on the gun.”

“According to Jake’s story, that’s exactly what we’d find,” Hank said. “Is the witness around?”

“She’s waiting with an officer in the backyard,” Jameson said, handing Hank an evidence bag. “You might want to see this first.”

Hank took the bag and held it up. It contained a cell phone.

“That’s Merrilla Overstone’s cell phone,” Jameson said. “Found it in the side pocket of her jacket. There’s a text message you might want to see. Don’t worry about prints. It’s already been processed.” Jameson glanced at his clipboard and turned his attention to another matter.

Hank opened the bag, found the text messages, and read the most recent one. It was from 10:10 that morning, and it read: “Am on my way. Bringing money.”

The message was from an unknown sender and there was no reply.

King looked over Hank’s shoulder at the message. “What money?”

Hank narrowed his eyes. “Money from the bank robbery, perhaps. This is too much of a coincidence to be otherwise.”

“Do you think Mrs. Overstone was in on the robbery?” King asked, leaning against the counter.

Hank frowned. “Maybe. But it seems more likely the robber was afraid she’d recognized him and he had to silence her. We know she saw his face, though it was from a distance away.”

“Then where does the money come in?”

Hank shook his head. “I don’t know. Perhaps he threatened her and she demanded money. Then the whole thing turned to blackmail.”

“And he wasn’t too happy with that,” King said. “Decided he’d rather shoot her than pay up.”

Hank nodded. “Perhaps, but why would he bother confronting her in the first place? Why not shoot her and be done with it?”

“I think she was in on the robbery,” King said. “It’s the only thing that makes sense. He was bringing her cut to her, then changed his mind about paying.”

“You might be right. Let’s hope we get a chance to talk to her.”

Jameson had returned. “Hank, the witness says she has to go out.”

Hank nodded and handed King the phone. “See if you can find out what number that message came from.”

He went out the back door. A woman was carrying on a conversation with a cop, and she stopped speaking when Hank approached her. She introduced herself as Penny Ford and glanced around nervously as though expecting the gunman to return and shoot her down.

Hank jotted her name and phone number down, then asked, “Mrs. Ford, did you witness the shooting, or only hear the shots?”

She glanced around again, then looked Hank in the eye. “I was in my backyard like I always am this time of day.” Her jowls quivered when she talked, and she seemed to be chewing her words before she spit them out. “I was minding my own business, and I heard a shot. I ducked down mighty quick, then a couple of minutes later, I heard another shot, and a man ran from the house.”

“Did you see where the man ran to?” Hank asked.

“He didn’t run nowhere. He just stood still, waved the gun at me, then went back in the house.”

The woman was describing Jake’s actions. But what about the shooter? “You only saw one man?”

The woman nodded. “Just one.”

“After the second shot. And no one ran from the house after the first shot?”

The woman shook her head adamantly. “Nope. Just the one. Not two seconds after the second shot, he comes chargin’ out wavin’ a gun.”

“Could you identify him?”

“Sure as shootin’. He was tall. Taller than you. And big, like strong.”

That was Jake, all right.

“Did he say anything to you?” Hank asked.