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

by Mike Slavin

  “You look tired. Let me get us some coffee.” Trish went into the kitchen. The last thing Case remembered was the lampshade beside the chair tilting to the left.

  23

  Houston

  June 7, 2018, Thursday

  Case opened his eyes to the sun shining through a window and the smell of coffee. He’d fallen asleep and spent the night in Trish’s comfortable chair. She’d not only covered him with a blanket but slipped a pillow behind his head, all without him knowing. Blended into the comforting smell of coffee was the aroma of bacon. His mouth watered as he lifted the blanket and looked at his reflection in the living room mirror.

  Damn, I look pretty bad.

  He should let Trish know he was back from the land of dreams. “Morning,” he called out. “Was it good for you, too?”

  She laughed. “How do you like your eggs?” she asked.

  “Over medium.”

  “How many?”

  “Just two.” The smell taunted him—when bacon hit his taste buds ... mmm ... man, healthy diet kryptonite. “I don’t suppose you have an extra toothbrush?” he asked.

  “Of course.”

  Case brushed his teeth, then stared at his face in the mirror. He brushed his knuckles over his stubble. It felt good, though heaven knew why. Maybe the stubble reminded him of his grandfather, who’d never shaved on the weekends when Case was young. Case’s hair was also messed up, but it was short enough that putting his head under the water straightened it. His clothes were wrinkled from his having slept in them all night, but he couldn’t do anything about that.

  Trish was sweet, loving, and kind. In many ways, she seemed girlish and innocent as she fixed breakfast and cared for him. In all their dealings, she had always been so very business-like. She projected confidence. Most women seemed to overcompensate, but if they didn’t, they usually weren’t taken seriously. It was harder for a woman in business. Case liked her firm handshake and the fact that she always looked him in the eyes. She seemed like a good person who could be trusted.

  The sun felt warm and pleasant as it shone on him through the window.

  A question from Trish pulled him back into reality. “What are you going to do?” She was standing behind him, holding a fresh cup of coffee.

  He turned to face her. “The best defense is a good offense,” Case said, taking the coffee from her. “If Pumpkin Head and Prego killed Robert Guess, and I’m sure they did, they’ll probably be coming after me. They need to be taken care of.”

  “What does that mean? Kill them?” Trish asked.

  “I didn’t say that.” He sipped his coffee. “What I have to do is to find out how this Tony guy is involved. If he’s not the main guy, I have to find out who’s giving him orders.”

  “What do you mean?” she asked.

  “What do you think I mean?” he replied.

  “These don’t sound like some run-of-the-mill gangbangers. These guys might have deep connections, and they’ve had time to prepare.”

  “That’s what I need you to investigate. I think Tony and his goon squad are too small to be involved in the mob. I need to know if they want me dead, or if they even care about me. Keep Bobby on Krusty, though. That’s my main interest. Have him learn all his routines and friends. And I need to know if he had an accomplice or if he did it on his own. Also, I wonder if we can talk to Mrs. Guess today? I would love to know if she can shed any light on who actually wrote Kill Crime.”

  “That's quite a shopping list.”

  “I’m sure you can handle it.” Case broke into a playful smile.

  “I can handle just about anything you throw my way,” Trish said. “Do you want me to call Mrs. Guess?”

  “No, just get me her phone number and address and whatever info you can.”

  “You got it.” Trish was all business again.

  “I need to go home and clean up.” Case made his way to the door. “Thank you for a great evening and the chair to sleep in.”

  “Anytime,” she said.

  He stopped a few feet out the door and turned around. “You know, anyone the goons see with me could be at risk. I don’t want you to end up dead.”

  “I’m a big girl. I know how to take care of myself.” Trish reached under her shirt and pulled out her compact revolver in a smooth, practiced motion.

  He hadn’t even noticed she was carrying it.

  Case cleaned up, changed his clothes, and went to the office. Larry called and confirmed supper with him later that evening. Trish got Mrs. Guess’s phone number for Case, and he gave her a call. She agreed to see him at four. He spent the day in the office and was at Mrs. Guess’s house right at four o’clock.

  Robert Guess didn’t seem that wealthy. The house was big but old.

  Had they held the funeral yet? With so many cars parked out front, it might mean friends and relatives were visiting Mrs. Guess during her grief. He was concerned about talking to her so soon after her husband had been murdered, but she had agreed. He was hoping to check Guess’s computer, thinking it might have valuable information on it, such as emails from the real author.

  Case rang the doorbell and a young man opened the door.

  “I’m Jeff Case. I have an appointment with Mrs. Guess.”

  “Yes, sir, come on in,” the young man said.

  He led Case to a room where five women were sitting. Then he leaned down and said something into a lady’s ear.

  An attractive woman in her late fifties stood up. She took a deep breath and said, “May I help you? I’m Mrs. Guess.” She was overweight but not by much, and she’d been crying.

  Case walked up to her. “Ma’am, I am so sorry about your husband, and I feel this may be a horrible time to talk. Should I come back in a few days?”

  “No, please, follow me,” said Mrs. Guess. She stood and walked down a hall into the master bedroom, then shut the door behind them. “My whole house is full of people. They all mean well, and I love them so much for wanting to be with me …” Mrs. Guess started to cry.

  Instinctually, Case stepped forward and held her. Her crying became even more intense for a few minutes before it finally slowed down. She stepped back, wiped her eyes, and took a deep breath. Case also had to wipe the tears from his eyes.

  He couldn’t help but sympathize. “I’m so sorry, Mrs. Guess.”

  “Please, call me Bridget,” she said. “Is it true you were the last person to see my husband alive?”

  “Yes, ma’am, I mean, Bridget. I had an appointment with him. It was right about when he was—” Case cut off, unsure if she believed her husband’s death to be a suicide or murder.

  “You saw him fall?”

  “Yes,” Case said.

  “Did he suffer?”

  “I’m sure he didn’t,” Case said, not knowing if he had or not.

  “Why did you go to see him?”

  “I saw him on TV and I was interested in his book.”

  “That’s all?” she asked.

  “I'm sorry I can’t tell you more,” said Case.

  Bridget took another deep breath. She was looking for answers, just like he was. “Did you know the men who killed Robert? Or why they would kill him?”

  “No, I don’t know them, or if they actually killed your husband. They’re only suspects at this time, I believe.” Case wanted to tell her what he knew, but he couldn’t.

  “Thank you, Mr. Case. You said you had some questions for me?”

  “I think the person who wrote Kill Crime knows who killed my parents,” Case said.

  If Bridget was surprised at his unusual question, she didn’t show it. “I don’t know about the research that went into getting his stories for the book,” she said.

  “Please don’t take this the wrong way, Bridget, but I don’t think your husband wrote that book. I think he revealed something in the book that he shouldn’t have, and that was the reason for his death. That’s why I really need to know who actually wrote the book.”

  Bridget didn’t
get upset or even seem surprised. She seemed to think hard before she said, “The book makes us—I mean, me—a lot of money.”

  “I completely understand, but if I find out who really wrote the book, it won’t affect your income. Your husband has the manuscript copyrighted at the Library of Congress. It’s yours. No one can take it away.”

  “Really?” Her shoulders slumped in relief. “I didn’t know that.”

  “Bridget, this is very important. Finding out the real author could save lives.”

  Bridget walked around the room as if struggling with what to say. Finally, she turned to Case. “Robert told me the man wanted to get the book published, but he didn’t want his name tied to it at all. He said he had his reasons and that Robert should take complete credit and all the money the book might make.”

  “May I see Robert’s computer?”

  “The police took the ones in his study and office. They told me I’d get them back soon,” she said. “But they won’t find anything. Robert had a few drafts and the final version of the book on his computer, but no emails or traces from the author.”

  “How’d he get the manuscript and drafts?” Case asked.

  “Someone delivered it on a thumb drive,” she said. “Do you want it?”

  “You have it?” Case asked, shocked.

  “It’s in the safe. Just a minute.” Bridget walked over to a picture on the wall that swung to the side. She opened a safe behind it. Then she turned around and handed the thumb drive to Case.

  “Why didn’t you give this to the police?”

  “I didn’t want to lose the royalties.”

  Case left Bridget’s house at five. It took him an hour to get across Houston through traffic. He had a few minutes to relax before Larry came over. Case sat at the computer in his study and booted up the thumb drive. A quick glance showed there were different drafts of Kill Crime leading up to a final formatted copy with a book cover. Someone probably provided this to Guess, and he downloaded it to his computer so if anyone checked, it would look like he had written the book. Case would get the thumb drive checked, but he suspected it wouldn’t give him any more clues as to who had written the book.

  He sat back in his chair and noticed a picture of his Green Beret team in Afghanistan among the other pictures on the wall of his study.

  24

  Greg, Marco, and Wimpy stopped at a motel in a small town north of Houston. Greg paid cash for two rooms and used a fake driver’s license as identification. He and Marco took one of the rooms while Mr. Wimpy took the second. They agreed to meet back at 2:00 p.m.

  “Well, whaddya think about Wimpy now?” Greg asked as Marco pulled off his shoes and got ready to sleep.

  “I don’t think he’s gonna try to take us out. I kinda like the guy,” Marco said.

  “I still don’t trust him,” Greg said.

  Marco went to sleep. Greg was tired, too, and he couldn’t afford to doze off during the drive to Houston, so he made sure the door was locked. Then he fell asleep.

  They knew they had to avoid street cameras, so they went looking for two upper-class apartments to steal cars from later in the day. Apartments were great—if you took the car after 9:00 p.m., people would probably be in for the night and not even miss it until the morning. There was also a large array of cars to pick from. Plus, if they switched the plates soon after they took the car, the police might not even trace it back to the same apartments, leaving their trail even colder.

  They couldn’t drive by Case’s house until they were ready to do the job. The police would check street cameras back a week or more to see if they could identify the car involved in the hit.

  They planned to be at Case’s house between eleven and midnight. That meant they’d leave the motel at nine-thirty. When they arrived at Case’s house, they’d simply knock on the door and kill him when he answered.

  It would be easy—he lived alone.

  “You dumb ass,” Larry greeted Case when he opened the door. With a big smile, he continued, “You don’t just throw someone off a building and then run to Vegas for some sluts, I mean slots.”

  “You know that’s not what happened.”

  Case and Larry hugged.

  “Hey, where’s your car?” Case asked.

  “In the shop. I should’ve got a loaner, but they said it’d be done today and they lied. I got dropped off. You don’t mind running me home when we’re done, do you?”

  “Of course, no problem. Get in here.”

  This was the first time since the funeral a few weeks ago that the two of them would have some guy time alone. Larry was always there for Case, ready to help with anything. Case planned on telling him about the PI he’d hired to find whoever had killed his wife and son, then have some deep conversations with him after supper.

  “I miss them so much,” Case said.

  “I know you do.” Both men gave each other a smile of understanding. Larry didn’t want Case to get choked up, so he tried to keep it light. “Do I smell food?”

  “You probably smelled it a mile away,” Case said.

  “You know it. I love to eat. Food’s ready?”

  “Yes, it is. Open a bottle of wine for us. You know where it’s at.”

  Case turned to walk into the open living area, which had high ceilings and perfectly coordinated yellow and light blue coloring. Larry followed.

  “I never get over this entrance,” Larry said as he gawked. “The chandelier, the spiral staircase, white marble floors, and white walls—makes me think of a virgin snow palace. Becky did a great job decorating this place.” Larry gave Case an awkward look. “Sorry.”

  “It’s okay. But you’re right, it’s all her. She picked out everything and coordinated everything. Everywhere I look, it makes me think of her.”

  Case got their food from the kitchen and brought it to where Larry sat in the breakfast area of the house, overlooking the backyard. Larry had opened a bottle of pinot noir and poured two glasses. With the cascading waterfall and the backyard lights on, the house looked like a resort.

  Out of habit more than anything, Case lifted his wine glass to Larry for a toast. Larry smiled and lifted his glass close to Case’s, but they didn’t clink them together for the usual toast.

  Here’s to us.

  Here’s to good health and good fortune.

  Nothing felt appropriate. May my wife and son rest in peace. Case sat there looking into space, holding his wine glass.

  Finally, Larry clinked his glass into Case’s. Case realized his friend had no words either, so he helped Case shake the moment. He saw Larry was going to finish his first glass of wine in one smooth motion, so Case mirrored his move.

  “Ah, that hit the spot.” Larry smacked his lips. He picked up the bottle and poured them both another glass. “Can we eat now?”

  As they ate, Case gave Larry an unofficial rundown of everything that had happened. Larry reassured his friend there was no case against him, but even so, he probably shouldn’t be talking investigation facts with Case. That technical point out of the way, as he and Case ate their steaks, Larry continued to reveal all he knew.

  “I’m a little worried about the two guys you saw murder Guess. They may be trouble for you,” Larry said.

  “I think I’m safe enough tonight, with a police lieutenant here.”

  “I’m serious. If they think you could identify them, they’ll want you dead.”

  “I’ve hired a couple of private investigators to find out anything they can about them.”

  “Anyone I know?” Larry asked.

  “The less you know, the better,” Case replied sincerely.

  Larry nodded, but his face showed concern.

  They watched a movie and talked. As it got late, Larry stretched and said he’d better be getting home. Case grabbed the dinner dishes, refusing Larry's offer to help. He was in the kitchen when a knock at the front door caught their attention.

  “Expecting anyone?” Larry called out.

  “N
o. Probably a neighbor,” Case shouted back. “Can you get it?”

  “Sure,” Larry called from the front room as he pulled out his weapon. He didn’t want to worry Case, but he was cautious. He held the weapon in his left hand, which hung down at his side. Larry carefully looked toward the entrance—a good-sized double door made of ornate smoked glass. He crossed the door to turn on the light outside, reaching for the switch.

  Case didn’t hear the door open, but he did hear two deafening gunshots in rapid succession. They were followed by the sound of glass breaking and then a loud thud.

  He instinctively fell to the floor and scrambled toward the foyer, keeping low to the ground. From his vantage point, he could see only Larry’s legs. Larry was lying on his stomach in a pool of blood, his feet toward the door. The door had been flung open and the two shotgun blasts had blown out the lead glass.

  Adrenaline raced through Case. He bolted from his hiding spot and sprang to the other side of the foyer, going for his gun in his study and wondering if the shooter would fire at him, too. Case grabbed his gun and ran back to Larry.

  Larry had taken two shotgun blasts from just a few feet away. The wooden and glass doors had done nothing to slow down the bullets. Glass and wood splinters were sprayed all over the floor. Case slipped on blood as he kneeled to check Larry’s pulse, keeping his pistol trained at the gaping doorway.

  Larry was dead.

  It was surreal, the white walls and marble floor, a black grand piano with the placid backdrop of the pool and lush gardens, and everything in the room covered in blood. The silence was deafening.

  Case was about to run outside, ready to kill, when Larry’s foot twitched, startling him. He rechecked his pulse. Still nothing.

  He ran outside, gun at the ready. Case caught a glimpse of a car turning right to leave the country club area. That road was three miles long with no turnoffs, so he could probably catch them, especially since they weren’t even speeding.