Kill Crime: A Jeff Case Novel-Stunning crime thriller full of twists with an unpredictable ending. Book 1

by Mike Slavin

  “What was that all about?” Case asked. Sam turned off the TV and walked to Case’s desk at a relaxed parade rest, arms behind his back, feet slightly spread, but no slouch. Of course, there were no office rules for this type of strict protocol, but with Sam’s twenty-five years of service as an NCO and Case’s ten years as an Army officer, old habits were hard to break. Not only that, it brought a certain sense of order and comfort to them both.

  “I thought you might be interested, with everything that’s happened and all. I didn’t mean to suggest anything.”

  “Sorry, I was half paying attention. Start at the beginning. Why did you want me to see that?”

  “Well, the author, Robert Guess, wrote a book, Kill Crime, about getting justice for criminals who get away with serious crimes, like murder.”

  “Let’s hope it doesn’t come to me finding justice. The cops are just getting started. Who is this guy anyway?”

  “He’s an attorney here in Houston. The book reads like a how-to manual to kill bad guys and get away with it, complete with examples. He says most of the book is based on true stories. Some think he actually committed the murders of known criminals listed in the book. He also talks about unsolved crimes. The book’s a bestseller, but obviously not without a lot of people being upset by it.”

  “Have you read it?” Case asked.

  “I have.”

  “What do you think? A bunch of bullshit?”

  Sam’s eyebrows went up. He made a goofy smile and gave Case a noncommittal shrug. “Maybe, but it’s interesting.”

  Case sat quietly for a second. “I don’t think that man killed anyone. He looks too frumpy and doesn’t speak with much confidence. Do you have a copy, Sam?”

  Sam went into his office and brought back a hardcover book. It was a simple jacket design, all black with the title in red: Kill Crime by Robert A. Guess. Case thought he’d seen the jacket in the bookstore.

  Sam handed it to him.

  “Sit down a second.”

  On the back of the book was a picture of Mr. Guess. He was smiling broadly and sitting behind a desk with the scales of justice in the foreground. A short biography appeared under his picture.

  Robert Guess’s first book tells us to not take it anymore. He feels we all need to take back control from a world where crime and violence run rampant and seemingly unchecked. He has a simple solution: Do it yourself. Get them before they get you. Guess is a graduate of the University of Texas and practices law in Houston, Texas, where he lives with his wife, Bridget.

  “So, what’s so special about this book?” Case asked, turning it over in his hands. “There have been plenty of books about vigilantism.”

  “Well, it’s a call to arms, with a lot of facts in it. And his take has a bit of a twist. Guess is more or less calling on everyday people to go out and kill some lowlife who they don’t even know. He says it takes the emotions out of the act, not to mention reduces the likelihood of being caught and does a service to society. It really sounds like something you might be interested in, and he’s right here in Houston.”

  “I’ve just buried my wife and son and you want me to read a book about being a vigilante?”

  “I’m sorry, sir. I wasn’t thinking.” Sam lowered his head. Case could tell that Sam regretted even mentioning the whole thing.

  “It’s okay. I know you meant well.” Case didn’t want his grief flowing over to everyone at the office, so he tried to break the tension with Sam.

  “Is that all, sir?” Sam asked.

  Case tried to make some conversation about the book. “Yeah, but about this book idea. I’ll admit it can appear like a war zone out there if you watch too much news. And it doesn’t sound like a bad idea on the surface, but it’s not very practical. I mean, who decides who deserves to get killed? We need to leave it to the cops and the courts. Don’t we? I mean, do you really think this book could actually move people toward a general uprising against crime? What would become of civilized society?”

  “You’re right. I just thought you might be interested. Happy to loan you my book if you’d ever like to read it.”

  “No thanks. I’ll get a copy on the way home,” Case said. “The author’s here in town, right? Can you see if you can get me an appointment, either here or I’ll go to his office?”

  Sam started to leave. Case spoke to him as he walked away. “Do you think this guy looks like a killer?”

  Sam stopped at the door and turned around. “Do they ever?”

  “I suppose not. Call that PI, Patricia Teal. See if she can do a background check on Mr. Guess. Tell her to email it to me when she’s done. And if you get me an appointment with him, put it on my calendar and let me know.”

  “Yes, sir. May I ask what you plan to ask him if you see him?”

  “I don’t really know. Just curious.”

  Sam had been able to get the appointment. The meeting was to be held at Mr. Guess’s office. Case had plenty of things to do before he left to meet the author later in the day, but he was looking forward to it.

  He had no agenda, but the book seemed relevant to his situation. There were two stories in the book that especially intrigued him—a robbery and a young couple who were killed years earlier. More than anything, Case just did not picture the man he had seen in the interview as the same guy who had written the book, and he wanted to meet him.

  Greg and Marco arrived in Houston at 10:45 a.m.

  “Humidity sucks here,” Greg said as he stepped off the plane. After a long walk through Bush Intercontinental Airport, they took the Hertz bus to the rental car facility. It wasn’t long before they were handed the keys to their rental car.

  “Still has that new car smell.” Marco slipped behind the wheel of a white GMC Yukon. “Nice.”

  15

  Case grabbed his soft black leather briefcase. The extra weight of the burner laptop made it heavier than usual.

  A few minutes after three, Case was in his Porsche and on his way to meet Guess.

  As he drove, Case tried to read the partial report on Robert Guess, but he didn’t get much out of it. Robert Guess was a tax specialist. He had worked for a big law firm in Houston for ten years, and then for some holding company for two years. For the last four years, he had been running his own law practice. Guess was forty years old, married to Bridget Sue Guess, and had two children. He had filed for bankruptcy just before he opened his own practice, had no military service, and did not have a concealed handgun license. He also had no history of writing fiction of any kind. He had only published a paper or two during his college years, when he got an undergraduate degree in business. He wasn’t even on the Law Review. At one time, he had belonged to a student organization, Peace for the World.

  Doesn’t add up.

  When Case pulled up to Guess’s building, he wasn’t impressed. The rundown class C building looked like a crappy four-story white box. The rent was probably reasonable. Guess was on the top floor. It was time to go in and see what this lawyer was all about, operating out of this nasty, paint-flaking building.

  As Case walked into the drab beehive, two men arrived at the elevator alongside him. They didn’t look like they belonged there. They refused eye contact, so Case looked them over discreetly.

  The first man was average in height but, under his black knit shirt, had a pregnant bump that formed an awning over his sagging belt. The other man was taller and wore a red Hawaiian print shirt. The distinguishing feature was a thick neck holding up a huge head. His face was bright red, from either the heat or the exertion of carrying around such a big head. Case always tried to remember something unique about people. These two were firmly imprinted in his mind as Pumpkin Head and Prego.

  He pushed the elevator button for the fourth floor. They didn’t push anything.

  “Penthouse?” Case said.

  They didn’t answer. They didn’t smile. They didn’t look at Case.

  The elevator had started to climb when Pumpkin Head suddenly leaned
forward and pushed three. He had plenty of time, as the old hydraulic elevator lumbered slowly, lifting them to the heavens like an old man getting up from a chair. The smell of hydraulic fluid competed with Prego’s odiferous cologne. The elevator creaked as they slowly ascended.

  Ding!

  The men got off on three. The doors seemed to take forever to close. Case was confident he would eventually get there, but it was slow going.

  Ding!

  As Case stepped out onto the fourth floor, he caught a glimpse of Pumpkin Head and Prego going into an office across from the elevator doors. They must have taken the stairs. Which didn't make much sense. The elevator was slow, but not that slow.

  Being a couple of minutes early for his appointment, Case stopped at the restroom before looking for Mr. Guess’s office. He was surprised to see this was the same office his elevator buddies had gone into and was shocked the office was now empty. He assumed they’d found it empty and left.

  Case walked into Mr. Guess’s outer office. The first impression anyone would get was that it was messy. It was a single open space with two offices up against the windows. At one side of the open space sat an empty secretary’s desk, while a conference table sat on the other. Old metal file cabinets lined the walls. Case could see straight into Guess’s office, which had a floor-to-ceiling window and a balcony. The second office was jammed with boxes and appeared to be unoccupied.

  The place was sparse and hadn’t been refreshed in years. Around the office sat cheap, worn, blond-finished furniture that might have been twenty years old. No piece was spared the indignity of having something stacked on it. The floral prints on the wall were faded with age and hung slightly crooked. Dust covered every surface, while dust balls rolled like tumbleweeds at the slightest movement.

  With no one to greet him, Case stepped into what he thought was Mr. Guess’s office. It was empty, too. He saw a picture of Guess and his family on the desk. Case was about to turn away when he saw Guess through the window. The man fell past him—screaming—on his way to the parking lot from the roof.

  Damn.

  Case rushed to the little balcony off Guess’s office and glanced down. Guess was definitely no more. Case looked up. Prego and Pumpkin Head had been staring down at their handiwork. Now they were staring at him.

  Case ducked back inside, knowing it was too late. He had just seen Guess’s murderers. He’d be next if he didn’t get the hell out of there. He raced out of Guess’s office and outer office and then checked the hallway.

  Clear! He assumed they would probably take the other stairway, the one closest to Guess’s office, in the hopes of meeting him. So, instead, he sprinted toward the far set of stairs, hitting the down button on the elevator as a distraction. If his plan worked, they might think he was taking “Old Creaky” to the lobby. It might buy him enough time to get out.

  He wished he were packing. After his family’s murder, Case had gotten licensed to carry a concealed weapon. Although he didn’t always carry, he did keep a 9mm in his car.

  Case slammed open the stairway door and took the steps two at a time. He burst from the fire exit, the scorching Texas sun blinding him, and hauled ass until he got to his car.

  As he pulled away from the parking lot, Case noticed the commotion around Mr. Guess’s body. He had to slow down to get past. He was startled to see Pumpkin Head at the edge of the crowd, glaring at Case as he wrote something in a notebook. Pumpkin Head slid the notebook into his pocket and shot Case the biggest shit-eating grin he had ever seen.

  This wasn’t good.

  Case quickly realized they weren’t chasing him. They had no need to. They’d gotten his license plate number. He pulled over to think for a moment.

  They’d killed Robert Guess, but he hadn’t seen them do it. Since he hadn’t seen them commit the murder, maybe they wouldn’t feel the need to kill him.

  They drove past in a white Yukon. Case quickly wrote down their license plate. Going on the offensive, he decided to follow them.

  They drove onto the freeway, which allowed Case to follow at a distance. They pulled off the highway close to the airport and turned into a gas station. Case pulled into the McDonald’s next door. He saw Pumpkin Head go into the restroom on his side of the gas station, shielded from Prego’s view.

  Case had a small window of opportunity. He grabbed his 9mm Browning automatic pistol from under the seat and took off toward the restroom, more excited than scared. He waited until the door started to open from the inside to let the goon out of the restroom. Case hurtled into the door. It slammed Pumpkin Head in the face, breaking his nose and knocking him to the floor as Case rushed in. He jabbed the barrel of his pistol into Pumpkin Head’s neck and in a low, no-shit voice, punched out, “Do. Not. Move. Or. I. Will. Kill. You.”

  Pumpkin Head didn’t move or say a word, but Case could feel his insane pent-up rage building. He quickly patted down Pumpkin Head—no gun. He took the man’s wallet and then reached into his coat pocket. Case found a piece of paper with his own license plate number on it and shoved it into his pocket. He could hear Pumpkin Head’s labored breathing and almost heard his brain trying to calculate if he could take Case before getting a hole shot in his head.

  Case cocked back his arm and, swinging for the hills, hit him on the head with the butt of the pistol. Pumpkin Head crumbled. Case backed out of the restroom, got into his car, and drove off. In his rearview mirror, he saw Prego still pumping gas. Case laid in wait farther up the road. He knew where they were going. This was the last gas station on the road to the airport.

  He checked through Pumpkin Head’s thin wallet. He had a few hundred bucks and a Nevada driver’s license with the name Gregory Gibson on it.

  When they drove past, he followed. They headed straight to Bush Intercontinental Airport, checked their car into Hertz, and took the bus to Terminal C.

  Case drove to the daily parking lot over Terminal C, on the sixth floor, right by the elevators. He took off his suit jacket and tie, popped the trunk, and put on the dark blue windbreaker that he wore when he played golf. He also put on a white U.S. Open golf hat. A shitty disguise at best, but they shouldn’t be looking for him.

  He ran with a mixed thrill of excitement and fear. Case took the elevator down to the second floor and walked into the check-in area, where the goons were buying tickets at a kiosk.

  He would have recognized the red Hawaiian shirt a mile away. They looked irritated as they spoke to each other. Pumpkin Head was holding his swollen nose. He wore a makeshift bandage on his head where Case had hit him. Case thought he could have taken pictures of them earlier but he just didn’t think of it. Using his iPhone, he took a couple of discreet pictures from one side and then the other so he could get both of their faces. Case often shot things out of focus but he hoped the camera gods were with him.

  Pumpkin Head could have trouble checking in with no wallet or ID. It had happened to Case once. If the airlines can verify a person with a Facebook page or some other information, especially with a picture on the Internet, they’d give the person a one-time pass to board the plane. Case drifted back out of the way and waited for them to go through the metal detector and around the corner.

  Striding to the ticket agent, Case flashed a deputy police badge given to him by a police chief in a small town in the oil patch so he could avoid speeding tickets.

  “Ma’am, I’m Deputy Case. This is official police business, and urgent. I need the names and the flight number of the two men who just checked in. One man had a bright red Hawaiian shirt.”

  “I'm sorry?” she said, confused. “I’ll need to call my supervisor.”

  “I need it now,” Case implored.

  “Should I call TSA?” she asked, reaching for the phone.

  Case stopped her hand. “There's no need. There’s no potential danger. I’m just surveilling them for a case I’m on.”

  Her expression transformed from confusion to anxiety to interest. “I see.” She banged away on her key
board and then looked up, smiling. “Mr. Gregory Gibson and Mr. Marco Russo are on Flight 1937 to Las Vegas, departing at 9:25 p.m.”

  “Is there an earlier flight?” Case asked.

  “There’s one leaving at 7:47.”

  “Can you put me on it?” Case asked her. “First class, if possible?”

  She checked and said there was a seat in first class, then asked if Case had a one-pass number. Case gave her his number and his credit card. In a few minutes, a boarding pass was printing out of the kiosk.

  He headed to his departure gate.

  Okay, I’m trailing a couple of murderers and should beat them to Vegas by about an hour and a half. That should give me plenty of time to follow them to see what they’re up to.

  A sudden thought nearly stopped him in his tracks.

  What the fuck am I doing?

  16

  “Sir, would you like a drink before we take off?” the stewardess asked.

  “Red wine, please,” Case answered.

  There was something relaxing about flying. It was a haven. The stewardess brought Case a small red wine. He pulled his cap over his forehead, took a deep breath, and shut his eyes. The smell of a light floral rose perfume reminded Case of Becky nuzzling up against him. He opened his eyes, hoping to see her beside him. As he peeked out from under his cap, he was disappointed to find the lady beside him wasn’t Becky. She immediately faded from focus as a bright red, floral Hawaiian shirt moved down the aisle.

  Damn, they must have changed flights.

  The fact that Case was in seat 1A against the window probably helped him blend in as they walked past his row. Case knew he could still beat them to Vegas, but only if first class deplaned first.

  He watched the goons inch down the corridor and settle into seats near the back of the plane. The lady beside him couldn’t help but notice his intense focus.

  “You have friends in coach?” she asked.

  “No, ma’am,” Case said.