by Mike Slavin
Kill Crime
Mike Slavin
Golden Mean Press
Copyright © 2019 by Mike Slavin
Mike Slavin
Kill Crime
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Mike Slavin
Golden Means Press
First Edition 2019
Created with Vellum
Contents
Part I
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Part II
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Part III
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Part IV
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
Thank You To The Readers
Please Leave a Review
Kill Crime Series in Order
Also Available By Mike Slavin
About the Author
Part I
Gotcha
1
Houston
March 2, 2016, Wednesday
As he waited, Jeff Case rubbed the scar over his right eye—a lifetime reminder.
Over a birthday cake.
Case usually found himself shaking his head as he rubbed the scar. It was still hard to believe it had happened.
The windows were up, but Case knew the valet had turned on the air conditioner at full blast. When the young woman drove up, her stringy blonde hair was blowing as if in a gale. She jumped out of Case’s Escalade and stepped back to hold open the door. Sweat dripped from the thin, college-aged woman’s nose, but it made her no less attractive. Just another hot, humid day in Houston.
“Here ya go, sir,” she said with a big smile and a little Texas twang. He noticed she paused for what seemed like longer than usual and stared hypnotically into his eyes.
Case was six feet tall, which was fine with him. He also kept himself in the kind of shape he felt was appropriate for a former Green Beret. He was always clean-shaven and kept his dark brown hair cut short. Case’s ocean-blue eyes, while memorable, were not as remarkable as the two-inch scar over his right eye. People looked at it either directly or sheepishly. Some asked what it was from. Others wanted to ask, but didn’t. For Case, that scar was forever a reminder that could trigger deep emotions. It stared back at him every day when he shaved. Few people knew the whole story.
Case thought there was a little flirt from the valet, who he remembered was working for tips.
“Thanks.” He handed her a five-dollar bill, then jumped behind the wheel so quickly he forgot to take off his suit jacket. He was wearing his lucky suit—dark blue with a white shirt and a maroon tie with sailboats on it. Once again, his lucky clothes had come through.
“Just a minute.” Case called her back as she started to run off for the next car.
“Yes, sir,” she said over her shoulder. She stopped and turned to face him.
“Here you go.” He handed her an extra twenty dollars. “It’s been a good day.”
Case couldn’t have been happier. He’d just left a pivotal meeting and won a huge concession for his company. Instead of calling his wife, he was waiting to tell her in person. He knew he’d be back at his office in about thirty minutes. Case was soon out of the downtown area and headed north on the freeway toward his office.
As he hit speed on the highway, his favorite song came on. It was the theme from Top Gun—“Danger Zone.”
“Love this song!” Case yelled aloud to himself. He was singing along loudly when the hands-free phone rang, abruptly cutting off the music. Case took a breath to recover, then pushed the button on the steering wheel to answer.
“This is Jeff.” Case had been raised in Texas by his grandparents, but they had moved from the Midwest and never acquired the Southern accent. Consequently, Case had only a very slight accent. Few people guessed he was from Texas.
“It’s Pete. Wilson’s got a schoolgirl.” Pete’s voice was both hushed and frantic through his heavy “no shit” New York accent.
“What?” Case paused a second. He pounded hard on the steering wheel. “He won’t get away with this again.”
All Case could think about was his twelve-year-old niece, Olivia. A year ago, she had been a normal, sweet, confident, innocent girl. Then everything in her world had changed in an instant. For that, Case hated this bastard and could kill him with his bare hands.
“You’d better hurry. He just pulled into the Round Earth Motel in Humble.” Pete’s accent would never let him blend into Houston. Case remembered how happy Pete had been to move to Houston and away from the cold when Case had hired him a year ago. This was the first time the private investigator had called. Case barely recalled what the guy looked like. He remembered tall, chubby, and not very smooth.
“What? Why didn’t you call me when he first picked her up?” Case practically yelled.
“Well, I wasn’t—”
“Never mind,” Case cut him off.
“Should I call the cops?”
“No, there’s no time. Do something, now!”
“Me? No way. This was just a surveillance job.”
“Forget it. I got it. I’m close. As soon as he goes into a room, text me the room number.”
“Okay, but like I said, you’d better hurry.”
“Yeah, no shit.” Case was surprised and pissed that Pete wasn’t moved to stick his neck out at all to help the poor girl.
When the radio automatically came back on, blasting music after the phone disconnected, Case was startled and turned it off. The sound of the wind and the tires against the road accompanied the thump of his heartbeat. With adrenaline surging through him, he gripped the steering wheel, stepped on the gas, and started weaving in and out of cars along the freeway. The clock ticked. It could be a walkover or a catastrophe. But he’d long accepted that fear of death didn’t stop men from going into battle, and there was no cost too high to save a child.
The exit was a couple of miles ahead. Case was blocked by three cars, all going the same speed. He laid on the horn. One guy put down his window and put up his middle finger, but no one sped up or s
lowed down. Case’s phone buzzed. He got the address and room number.
Dammit! Running out of time.
Case whipped the car to the right and cut close in front of the car beside him. The vehicle swerved and its driver laid on the horn. Case’s Escalade fishtailed as he swung onto the shoulder to pass the cars ahead of him. After a near miss on a guardrail, the hands-free phone rang again. Case didn’t look to see who was calling. He hit the answer button while trying to remain on the shoulder at a reckless and breakneck speed. He could hear rocks and debris kicking up and see the cloud of dust trailing him. He assumed it was the PI with an update.
The sweet Texas accent of his wife greeted him. “Hi, sweetheart. How’d the meeting go?”
He couldn’t tell her he was rushing to maybe apprehend Olivia’s rapist. She’d go nuts and he wouldn’t be able to get her off the phone.
“Can’t talk! Sorry. Everything’s fine, but I gotta go,” Case said. He knew saying this wouldn’t be enough to get rid of Becky.
“What? Did everything go all right in the meeting?” she asked.
“Damn!” Case hit the brakes hard just before entering the off-ramp. A big, red SUV was pulling in front of him, oblivious to Case’s speeding vehicle. The back of the Escalade hit the guardrail as it slid sideways on the gravel. The gap was just big enough for Case to pass the man on his right going down the off-ramp. Case hit the gas pedal and crowded past the car on the left. They honked and Case got the finger again from an angry-looking man with a beard.
“What’d you say?” Becky asked. He could tell she was stunned at what she thought he’d said to her.
“Not you. Sorry. No questions, please, not now. Everything’s fine, but I’ve really gotta go. Call you back soon. I’m hanging up. Love ya. Bye.” He hung up.
Case swung across three lanes of traffic as he came off the exit and onto the feeder. He had to go through the next intersection, and he could already see the light was red.
“Damn again,” Case said, banging on his steering wheel.
He slowed and saw a tight opening between two SUVs. The light was still red, but Case kept going. He heard another horn honk and figured he’d gotten flipped off again, but he didn’t look. He was in the center of an intersection with near misses going from his left and right in both directions. He was close now.
As Case accelerated, he couldn’t stop thinking about his niece and all the dead and abused children he’d seen in combat zones where he’d served. In a flash, he was back in Afghanistan for a microsecond. He had a quick memory of one little girl who haunted him. She’d been dead, maybe three years old, still holding her doll, lying beside the road in the dirt. There was a horrible wound in her neck, and too much blood. Dust had already settled on her open eyes. Beside her was the mother, one hand resting on her dead toddler and her other arm holding a dead baby. The infant’s limp, blood-covered arm hung out of a blue blanket. The mother rocked back and forth, screaming and crying as she held her lifeless baby and kept her other hand on her small, dead daughter.
But now he would save this kid. When Case saw the motel a block away, he started looking for a parking place out of range of any cameras. His tires squealed as he jerked the wheel to cut the final corner. He was prepared to double-park, but he didn’t have to. He hit the brakes and slid to a stop on a residential street behind the motel.
Case slammed the car into park, pulled a Houston Astros baseball cap from his glove compartment, and tugged it over his face. He shoved on a pair of work gloves, then jumped out and took off running. He knew he had to look a little odd in a suit, a cap, and gloves. Didn’t matter. It took less than a minute to run across the back parking lot of the hotel and to the door.
He didn’t bother knocking. Wilson would peek out the window. Case kicked in the door. It flew open so easily. He fell to his hands and knees with his sailboat tie dangling to the floor. The nasty green carpet stank of dirt and chemicals.
Jesse Wilson, the man who’d raped Case’s then-twelve-year-old niece, got arrested. Then he’d gone to trial and gotten off scot-free. Now he stood at the end of the bed with a revolver in his hand. He turned, raised the gun, and stuck it in Case’s face.
The guy has a gun. My wife is gonna kill me!
Case, still on his hands and knees, stared down the cold, oily barrel pressing against his nose.
“You a cop?” Wilson screamed. He was skinny, his hairy legs clad in white athletic socks and heart-spotted boxer shorts. A ragged wife-beater clung to his concave torso.
Case didn’t answer him.
“Who the fuck are ya?” Wilson demanded. He swayed on his feet as he rubbed his temple with his free hand. “Fuck!” he growled. Wilson kept the gun leveled on Case, but reached up with his other hand, banging the back of his fist against his forehead several times as if that would make him think better. “What do I do?” he spat.
The bedspread was pulled back on the thin, lumpy, queen-sized bed. The young girl looked so tiny, maybe eleven or twelve, lying on the bed with nothing on except panties. It infuriated Case. She wasn’t moving. She was on her back, her legs spread and her arms at her side. She looked drugged.
Although he owned guns, Case never carried a weapon. Presidents of oil companies didn’t usually have to be armed. This had gotten way out of control.
Wilson stared down at Case as if trying to figure out who he was, but with the baseball cap shielding Case’s face, Wilson couldn’t get a good look at him.
Look away. Look away. Case chanted in his head, willing Wilson to give him the break he needed to make his move.
The girl pulled up one of her legs and moaned.
Wilson turned to look at her.
Case swatted the revolver to the right, throwing himself out of the line of fire. Still on his knees, he sprang forward like a frog.
The gun flew from Wilson’s hand as Case barreled into his thighs. Both men spilled to the floor. Wilson, falling backward, reached out for his gun just a few inches from his hand. Case saw him pick it up by the barrel and swing it at his head.
Case couldn’t get his arm up in time and took the blow. Case just kept coming and crawled forward so his weight was on Wilson’s chest. The man kept fighting to get up, but Case landed a solid punch and Wilson almost went limp. Case straddled the man’s chest and began pounding his face. He didn’t have to look. He knew the half-naked little girl lay close by on the bed.
Case’s leather work gloves protected his hands. He got lost in a rage, rhythmically hitting Wilson in the face long after he went limp.
Someone grabbed his punching arm.
“C’mon, man, ya gonna kill ‘em,” Pete said in his gruff New York accent.
Case panted as he forced himself to relax, still sitting on the unconscious man’s chest. Wilson’s face was mottled red, but there wasn’t much blood. Pete stood behind Case, doing nothing.
Police sirens started wailing in the background.
“Sorry, man, but I had to call the cops,” Pete said. And then added, “Nice suit.”
Case ripped off one of the lamp cords and flipped Wilson over to tie his hands.
The girl seemed to have succumbed to whatever Wilson had dosed her with. Case grabbed a towel from the bathroom and laid it over her unmoving body. He didn’t want to disturb the crime scene any more than he already had, but he refused to leave her exposed.
Case’s baseball cap had stayed on his head. With his head tilted down and while shielding his face, he stepped over to Pete.
“You get to be the hero today.” Case didn’t want to be in the news as the oil company president who had hired a PI, had a rapist followed for a year, and then had beaten the shit out of that rapist. Case took out his wallet and handed five hundred-dollar bills to Pete. “Take these. I’ll send another two thousand in cash. Just say you kicked in the door and took down Wilson. Don’t mention me.”
“What about the girl?” Pete asked.
The police sirens were only a block away.
“Stay with her until the cops show up,” Case replied. “And don’t touch the gun. It’s got his prints on it.” Those were Case’s last words as he took off.
Case threw his hat, gloves, and jacket in the back seat of his Escalade before he sped off.
2
Case tried to relax on the way to see his wife, Becky, at their office. He could picture her hard at work behind her desk. She had dark brown hair that she wore in a pixie cut and her eyes were a rich brown. She was an attractive, tall, slim woman, but a few inches shorter than her husband. They were often told they looked perfect together. Having grown up in a small town in the Lone Star State, she had acquired a solid but sweet Texas accent.
Two years ago, Case had received the opportunity to buy a failing oil company for a song. Case and Becky had a little money thanks to an unexpected windfall they had received four years ago, after Case had resigned from the Army. But they’d had nowhere near the kind of money required to buy an oil exploration company. Fortunately, since resigning, Case had learned many financial skills, including how to raise money.
Case had put all his effort and skill into raising the funds they needed. From day one, Becky had been a full partner. Case handled the oil and gas side, learning as he went, while Becky handled the back room and accounts. They rode to work together every day that Case wasn’t in the field at an oil well.