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

by Mike Slavin

  It was hot and would get hotter.

  They were on schedule when, forty miles outside Albuquerque, the car sputtered and the engine quit. They coasted to the side of the road.

  Greg called Tony. “Boss, the car just broke down.”

  “What the fuck am I, the auto club? Get it fixed,” was Tony’s helpful advice before he hung up.

  None of them knew anything about cars. The next exit was nine or ten miles away and that was a long walk in the heat. The car’s insurance probably came with roadside assistance, but they didn’t know where the paperwork was. So, they sat in the sweltering heat and argued about what to do.

  After fifteen minutes, a New Mexico State Trooper car pulled up behind them. The trooper was dressed in a fitted black uniform trimmed in gray. He looked young and in great shape. Like all New Mexico troopers, he had a 9mm Smith & Wesson M&P pistol on his hip.

  The trooper walked to the driver’s window and asked if he could help. Most of the weapons were hidden in the trunk, but Greg still had a pistol on his ankle. He was ready to draw and kill the cop if he had to.

  Fortunately, the trooper just called for a tow truck and left.

  The tow truck showed up thirty minutes later. The car was towed to the next exit and dropped at the gas station. It was late, and the station was closed. The tow truck driver told them someone could fix their car after the station opened at seven-thirty in the morning. Greg politely asked if he could take them to a place that could repair the car immediately. The driver said he was sorry, but he didn’t have time and he wasn’t sure who was open. He lived the other way and had to get home, something about his daughter. Greg started to escalate the conversation into a more serious and rougher tone, but Marco held him back. They paid the tow truck driver in cash and he left.

  They walked to the only motel in sight. Most of the lights were out on the flickering red neon sign, making it hard to read, but they could just make out the word “Vacancies.”

  Marco and Greg shared a room, while Mr. Wimpy got his own. They still had twelve hours to get to Houston once the car was fixed. This would set them back a day.

  Case woke at eight in the morning. A smile came to his face. For a few seconds, he was back in time with his wife lying beside him. He thought of all the good times they’d spent in Vegas, all the shows they’d seen together: The Phantom of the Opera, Mamma Mia, the Beatles’ Love, and a few shows that weren’t around anymore. One December, there had been heavy snow, right there in Vegas. It had seemed unbelievable, magical even. They’d hugged each other and watched it fall.

  When Case felt the emptiness of the sheet next to him, his heart sank. He rose and went to stand at the floor-to-ceiling window of his room on the eighteenth floor. The view was breathtaking.

  He didn’t feel too bad for about five hours of sleep, besides he could sleep on the plane. He had to book a flight back to Houston. Right after he called Vicky to see if she’d learned the identity of the mystery man in Bally’s, the one whom the two goons reported to.

  “Any luck, Vicky?” Case asked.

  “His name is Tony Testa. The room was charged to an MBA Exploration in Houston, Texas. My friend tells me he’s a pretty big fish.”

  “You’re amazing. I’ll make this up to you the next time I’m in town.”

  What the hell’s going on? So this Tony guy’s from Houston? But why send a couple of Vegas goons to throw Mr. Guess off a building? It’s got to have something to do with Kill Crime—it’s just too much of a coincidence not to.

  He called Sam. “I’ll be flying back this afternoon. Any messages?”

  “Your PI said she emailed you the report you asked for, and Lieutenant Marsh left another message for you to call him as soon as you got in the office. Plus, you have a bunch of miscellaneous calls, mostly oil-related,” Sam said. “Oh! There was a strange call, too. Someone was obviously trying to disguise his voice. All he said was, ‘Did he get the message?’ I asked what message, and he hung up. He never called back.”

  “I wonder if it was Tommy Crow. It doesn’t matter,” Case said. “Just leave everything I need to see on my desk. I’ll stop by my office tonight if I can.”

  Next, Case texted Larry.

  I’ll be back late afternoon. How about supper at my place tomorrow night at 8:30? PS: Bring Sandy.

  Larry texted him right back.

  I’ll be there. Sandy’s out of town on business, just us boys.

  The last thing Case did before going to the airport was to check his throwaway computer. He logged in to the tracker website and clicked on Tracker #1. There it was—the trace for Krusty’s car, showing where it was as of that moment. Case was proud of his planning and patience, but he still wasn’t sure what his next step would be. He felt like a dog chasing a car—and the chase was the easy part.

  20

  Houston

  June 6, 2018, Tuesday

  As soon as he got back into Houston, Case went to the police station and saw his friend Larry. When Larry saw Case, he jumped up and walked over to greet him with a handshake.

  “The detectives assigned to Robert Guess’s case are down the hall. I’ll take you down there, but I shouldn’t be talking to you right now.”

  “Not even a hello?” Case asked.

  “Hello. Now, take care of this interview. We can talk later.”

  Marsh took Case into another room and introduced him to another detective. “Call me later.” Those were Marsh’s last words as he walked back down the hall.

  The detective showed Case to an interview room. “The detectives who have this case are out, but I’ll call them and let them know you’re here. Can I get you a coffee or anything?”

  “No, I’m fine,” Case said.

  “They should be here soon.” The detective shut the door and left.

  Twenty minutes passed, and Case stuck his head out of the interview room. “How long is this going to take?”

  “I just talked to them. They’re on the way,” the detective said.

  Case was getting uneasy. He wasn’t under arrest yet, but he began to wonder if he would be.

  He called his oil and gas attorney, who was also a litigator, Cornelius “Rook” Corbin. It seemed like Rook knew everyone in Houston. He was in his seventies but, as a young man working on rigs in the oil patch, he’d gained a nickname that would stay with him for life. He was “The Rookie,” or “Rook.” Rook had been an Army aviator in Vietnam. He’d been a warrant officer, but he’d returned from the war to use his GI Bill to get his bachelor’s degree and then his law degree. He’d worked for a few of the big oil companies before partnering at a prestigious law firm in Houston. All the other partners who had worked beside him had long since retired, but Rook had never slowed down.

  “Hey, Rook. I need your help.”

  “Sure, anything.”

  “I’m sitting in an interrogation room at homicide at the main police station downtown.”

  “For what?”

  “Murder. Or, at least, knowing something about a murder.”

  “Whose?”

  “Robert Guess. He’s an author.”

  “Don’t say anything to them.”

  “I won’t, but I’ve been in the wrong place twice in the last couple of days. So get down here right away and bring the best criminal attorney money can buy. It probably wouldn’t hurt if he were a Texan.”

  “Will do. Don't go nowhere.”

  Case had to grin at Rook’s unrelenting opportunity to joke. The man was serious as a heart attack when he had to be, but he loved his jokes any other time.

  Rook arrived with a man Case had never met. He was in his late fifties, short, overweight, and sporting a bow tie and a huge white mustache. He reminded Case of an unkempt walrus.

  “Jeff,” Rook said, “I’d like you to meet the best criminal attorney in Texas, arguably the best anywhere. Camp Perkins.”

  Camp’s handshake was like shaking a cold rubber snake. Case was not impressed.

  He told
Camp and Rook the whole story, trying not to leave out anything. They listened without asking any questions or interrupting. When he was done, they sat looking at each other for a few minutes. Camp was taking many notes. Finally, he stopped and looked up.

  “Is that it?” Camp asked.

  “That’s it,” Case answered.

  “What interest did you have in Robert Guess in the first place?”

  “This guy and his book just caught my interest. Have you read Kill Crime?” Case asked.

  “No, but I know about it,” he said. “So, just out of curiosity, you were to meet Mr. Guess?”

  “Yes, that’s right.”

  The same detective who seated Case over an hour ago stuck his head in the room, “When you guys are ready, the detectives are back and ready to talk to Mr. Case.”

  “Just a few more minutes with my client, please,” Camp replied before turning his attention back to Case.

  “And do you know of anyone who would want to harm Mr. Guess?” he asked.

  “Every crook who thinks the book’s an autobiography and that Mr. Guess killed someone they knew. And any slimeball who held a grudge for Guess’s manifesto against crime.”

  “So why did you follow the two men you saw in the building all the way to Las Vegas, especially after you got back your car license number and an ID from the one man?” Camp asked.

  “I wanted to know who they worked for. At least then I’d know who might be coming after me.”

  “Okay, we’re about ready,” Camp said. “If that’s the whole story, you’re not guilty of anything criminal. Except, of course, for your encounter with Greg Gibson. Here’s what happened. You had to pee. When you stopped at the gas station, you pushed the door open so hard, it caused Mr. Gibson to fall and hit his head. He got up and shoved you on his way out. He must have dropped his wallet because you found it on the floor. By that time, he was gone. Is that what I heard you say?”

  “That’s right,” Case said.

  “Now tell them the story but leave out some details. Let them ask a few questions. They like to think they’re participating. I guarantee they’ll have their best people on this, but remember, you’ve done nothing wrong and you aren’t under arrest. If I touch your leg, stop talking. Feel free to confer with me at any time. Are you ready?”

  “I guess so,” Case answered.

  “You should be on your way home in a couple of hours.” Camp motioned they were ready.

  The same plain-clothes detectives, Pat and Mike O’Leary, who had been at the convenience store crime scene came into the interrogation room. It was hard to forget them, as they looked so much alike. Now, after twenty-two and twenty-three years respectively on the police force, and with most of that time in homicide, they were famous. They didn’t always get their man, but no one wanted these bull terriers locking their jaws on them. They always got the high-profile cases. The murder of Robert Guess—a national bestselling author of a controversial book—was definitely high profile. So, they had lots of questions for Case.

  The interview went on for a long time. The cops knew he’d roughed up Greg but didn’t probe. They were interested in the two goons, Tony Testa, and what was inside Mr. Gibson’s wallet. They even took a little break to have a detective escort Case and two attorneys out to his car so they could retrieve the wallet from Case’s glove box.

  There were no surprises in the wallet, but the interview lasted a little longer. They finished with Case a few minutes after midnight.

  Case wouldn’t forget their last words. “We don’t need your help, Sherlock.”

  21

  Rook had offered to let Case stay at his house for a few days, but Case had to change and clean up, so he drove himself home. He almost dozed off a couple times. When it happened the first time, Case put down the windows and turned on the radio. He was doing everything he could to stay awake, singing, rocking his body. It was still the middle of the night, so the traffic was thin, but if anyone noticed him, he knew they would think he looked like a maniac.

  With the garage door still open, Case stepped into the night. He was tired but seemed to get a second wind. The exterior lighting gave everything a soft look and Case felt a warm breeze. It wasn’t too hot yet. The breeze helped, but as the day progressed, the heat and humidity of June would become uncomfortable. Case headed down the stone patterned concrete driveway, toward the mailbox. The crepe myrtles and other shrubs that were lit up along the driveway, as well as the other outdoor lighting, reminded him of the exterior of a five-star hotel. His thoughts briefly drifted to Becky and all the trips they’d taken.

  I miss you, babe.

  He stood at the curb. Looking back at his house felt comfortable and normal. It reminded him that nothing had been normal lately. The last two days had been a whirlwind. His second wind was short-lived. Case realized he was so tired that he was numb.

  He barely remembered walking into the house and getting in the shower, but the hot water pelting his head and flowing over his body gave him an escape. He shut his eyes and allowed himself to zone out for a few minutes as his ten-inch rainfall showerhead drenched him. Standing like that, he could imagine his beautiful wife a few feet away at the other end of the two-person shower. Becky’s touch was all over the design of the house. The shower was more like a small room lined with white Carrara marble. Case and Becky had always showered together, and these days he always thought of her when he showered. He opened his eyes and stared straight at her shower head, which was shorter than his. His mind started to drift to possible revenge, but he was too tired to let it blossom.

  When Case’s alarm went off at 8:00 a.m., he was still tired but felt better. He took his coffee in a travel cup and jumped into his Porsche. The car started with a deep rumble. Case loved his car. Then he felt guilty. Whenever he liked something or felt like he was having fun, he missed his wife and son and wished they were there.

  His thoughts once again turned to possible revenge. He still planned to turn the murderer—or murderers—over to the cops, but maybe there was no harm in planning the ultimate revenge. The only time he’d faced this type of decision before, it had been easy.

  Arriving at the office, Case was half expecting another death threat, or a ninja ready to throw a star into his forehead. There was only Sam, who jumped out from behind his desk when he saw Case.

  “Messages on your desk,” Sam said.

  On top was a message from Trish. Case had meant to call her from the car, but he’d gotten a call from his accountant, and he’d still been talking to him while sitting in the parking garage before coming up to the office. Case called her back.

  “Can you come by my office at one?” he asked as soon as Trish answered.

  “You bet,” she said.

  “Bring Bobby and everything you have on Guess.”

  Case was swamped with work and meetings, but it felt good to get things done. He had to catch up, return some calls, and talk to Buster later. It would be a busy day.

  He began to look through his stack of messages. It was all the usual suspects except one—Jazz Lee, the woman who had interviewed Guess. Why would she be calling him?

  Case expected to have to wade through gatekeepers, but the reporter answered with a crisp, “This is Jazz.”

  “This is Jeff Case, returning your call.”

  “Mr. Case, thank you for calling me back. I have a national weekly show where I interview people in the news.”

  “Am I in the news?” Case asked.

  “I think you know the answer to that, at least locally. You were the last one to see the nationally known author of Kill Crime alive, and you may have seen his murderer. I think that’s news.”

  “I think there was more than that on the news.”

  “I’ve heard you like to play detective, Mr. Case. I’d like to talk to you.”

  “Where’d you hear that?”

  “A reporter never reveals her sources.”

  Case was slow to respond. “If it can be off the re
cord, and if you can be at my office today, I can see you at two or three this afternoon.”

  “I never go off the record, Mr. Case, but I can be there at two if that’s okay?”

  “Never go off the record? Really?” Case paused again, more for dramatic effect than anything else. “Okay, I’ll still see you at two o’clock if you want. I look forward to meeting you.”

  He didn’t plan to give her anything she didn’t already know, but he wanted to see what she knew about Robert Guess and Kill Crime.

  Case worked through lunch, and at one o’clock Sam buzzed him on the intercom, “Sir, Miss Teal is here.”

  Case held his hand over the phone and spoke to Sam over the intercom, “Bring her back.” Then he wrapped up the call. “Paul, I gotta go, but send your deal over and we’ll take a look at it.”

  Trish walked into Case’s office with Bobby behind her.

  “Please, sit.” Case motioned for the two PIs to take a seat in the royal blue upright chairs facing his desk. They were big and comfortable. “I’ve been watching the tracker on Krusty’s car. That’s an impressive piece of technology. Is there anything to report?”

  “Not really. Lives with his parents and doesn’t work,” Bobby replied.

  “Trish, you heard about Robert Guess getting killed?” Case asked.

  “I couldn’t believe it. Do you want me to keep looking into him?” Trish asked.

  “No, not now,” Case said, then turned to Bobby. “Do you know anything about this guy, Guess?”

  “Never heard of him,” Bobby answered.

  “He allegedly wrote Kill Crime,” Case said. “You heard of it?”