RED HUNT: A captivating detective mystery (Hard Boiled Thrillers, Noir and Hard-Boiled Mysteries) (Thomas Blume Book 3)

by PT Reade

  RED HUNT

  A Thomas Blume Book

  P.T. Reade

  -----

  www.PTReade.com

  ONE

  Chasing my mistakes.

  The old city flashed by the glass, blurred by the darkness of night and the passing street lights. A reflection flickered; hard face, steel eyes, and sorrow.

  I preferred to see the capital this way, sliding past my car windows at high speeds. In these sorts of situations, with buildings and landmarks blazing by, the pain slipped further away. At night, London looked like any other city I’d raced through: New York, Boston, Dallas...

  I had become quite good at high-speed pursuits during my time as a cop in New York, but then the backward-ass streets of London had to come along and screw it all up. Luckily, I had adjusted quickly. My driving might not have been quite as good as it was three years ago, with all the booze I’d sunk since arriving in England, but it was still better than most.

  The police scanner squawked and hissed angrily from the dashboard. I listened to an officer’s voice, panicked but excited.

  “Two-One Alpha, I’m going to need backup now! This woman drives like she’s done this sort of thing before.”

  A crackle of static burst out, and then the response came from another officer. “Roger that Two-Nine. Suspect has been evading law enforcement for two weeks,” the reply came. “So yeah, assume she’s got some experience.”

  “Thanks,” the other officer said. “Now how about the backup!”

  “We’re about two minutes behind you. Over.”

  “…and out,” the officer on the chase said.

  I could actually see the first officer’s car about fifty yards ahead of me, screaming down the narrow streets. His lights bathed the glass and steel of the financial district in cold blue and red.

  The car we were both after, however, was further ahead and out of my sight. And that car was my target. Somehow, I needed to reach it before the police. But it was getting more unlikely by the second. I’d made a late start on heading out after being jolted awake by my portable police scanner. Stumbling out of my apartment, battling a hangover and half asleep, it wasn’t the best start. If I had left quickly rather than searching for my keys and fighting with my damned jacket, I could have likely cut the car off before more police had even gotten involved.

  The car in question belonged to a young woman named Christina Bishop. According to the portfolio of photos strewn across my passenger seat, she was a stunning red-head, with full lips and natural curves—curves enough to have made a name for herself as an up-and-coming model, a real change from the usual stick figure zombies prowling the fashion scene. “The herald of a new age on the catwalks,” the fashionistas claimed.

  Online, people said a lot of things about Christina, in fact. Most good, some bad, some creepy as hell, but I had other things to focus on right now.

  Maybe she was drop-dead gorgeous, but right now she was also a suspected murderer.

  Suspected by everyone that was, except for her boyfriend, Damian. He’d approached me a little less than two weeks ago, paying me handsomely to find her before the police did. He swore that she was innocent, and after looking over the few case notes I had been able to get my hands on, I thought that there was a slim chance that he might be right.

  Innocence is sometimes a question of perspective, though.

  The story, as usual, was simple but peppered with just enough peculiar details to cast some doubt in my mind. Besides…I was beginning to like working on the opposing team from the police. They didn’t like me showing up at their crime scenes, which I understood, but they were slow and predictable.

  Again, I was angry with myself that I had been so close to drunk when the notice blared across the scanner. It had cost me precious time. And that time could have likely prevented this high-speed game of cat and mouse through Central London.

  But there was no sense in worrying about that now.

  The sad fact of the matter was that the cops were going to get Christina unless she could pull off some miraculous feat of stunt driving. And all I would be able to do was stand by and hope to pick up enough conversation to piece together what her fate would be. And once they got her, that would be it. The media had pretty much decided on her guilt right away, glossing over the inconsistencies in the report I had spotted.

  The Redhead Killer.

  Ahead, I watched the flashing lights of the cop’s car take a hard left, rounding the famous rocket-shaped skyscraper of 30 St Mary Axe, the Gherkin. Seconds later, his backup came tearing in hard and fast from a side street and pulled alongside the squad car perfectly. If they were on to me tailing them, they showed no signs of it.

  I used their sirens to my advantage, blasting through a stop light as traffic pulled aside at the sight and sound of the police cars. As I did this, the scanner crackled again and a woman’s voice chimed in.

  “Units One and Nine, please be advised that we have aerial support primed and ready to go. Delta nine-nine is seven minutes out. I repeat, seven minutes. Over.”

  A chopper. I shifted down a gear and buried the throttle into the floor pan. Damn, they want this woman bad.

  I was so tied up in trying to figure this out that I didn’t see what happened ahead of me. I did hear it through my half-open window, though—the squealing of tires, the blast of a car horn, and then the hollow thunder-like clap of metal crashing against metal.

  TWO

  Dead-end.

  I dropped my speed at once. The police cars ahead of me had come to a dead stop. Veering over, my old Toyota screeched to a halt, nearly tearing the fender off the car in front of me. I grabbed my camera from the glove box and stepped out. No need to make an effort to blend in. I ran full force to the flashing lights ahead—time was against me. Horns were still blaring through the night. Even before I neared the police cars, I knew what had happened.

  The stink of burning rubber stung my nostrils. The still, quiet air carried the sense of loss, disappointment, and shock.

  If I’d only been quicker.

  The cops were out of their cars and sprinting forward. One used the shoulder-harnessed mic on his uniform to call for an ambulance and to notify his superiors.

  I stopped at their cars and took in the scene.

  Christina Bishop’s silver BMW had jumped a curb, struck a panel van, and had flipped onto its roof. It had also struck a street light, crushing the front of the car. Glass was everywhere, but I barely saw this. What I paid the most attention to was the amber-colored fluid leaking from the rear.

  I raced forward but a strong arm halted my progress. A hand on my chest.

  “Sir. Please step away. Get back.” One of the uniformed officers declared sternly. He was taking on crowd control.

  “I want to help,” I snapped. “I used to be a–”

  “Sir! Please step back.”

  “But….ok,” I said, sagging and taking a step back.

  It was useless. Christina could be dying in there but I held my tongue and followed the officer’s instructions. The car was already surrounded by uniformed cops and telling them I knew the woman inside would only put me under suspicion.

  I dared take a few steps to the side, away from the officer–who was now concerned with other onlookers. Not wanting to alert the police, I snapped a few covert pictures with my camera. As I did, those other smells I had been expecting crept into my nostrils…oil and anti-freeze. I had been clos
e enough to a few of these situations where I had also smelled blood; metallic and rich. But I was too far away for that tonight, and I counted it as a blessing.

  I didn’t dare stick around long. More police cars would be showing up, and I sure as hell didn’t want to be there when the ambulance—or worse, the coroner—arrived and complicated things even further. Besides…as sad as it seemed, I was pretty sure I knew the outcome. Looking at the car, there was little chance a driver could survive such a crash. The front end was folded almost entirely, and the roof had caved in all the way to the trunk.

  A ruckus started nearby as bystanders finally overcame the shock of what had happened. It was a busy pedestrian area, and the people all reacted differently. One man shoved another out of the way in his haste to get away from the danger. Some stood aghast, hands over their mouth. Those with decency and sense hustled away looking solemn. Gawkers and private investigators moved closer to get a better look at the carnage.

  “Hey, you!”

  One of the cops spotted me taking pictures. Damn.

  Stuffing my camera inside of my long coat, I dodged into the gathering onlookers as if I were just another shocked pedestrian, interrupted from enjoying the clear spring night. I needed to confirm that it really was Christina Bishop’s car, but the Police weren’t going to let me get close. Then I noticed an Italian-themed cafe ahead, just a few steps from the scene. It was built into the ground floor of a tall Georgian townhouse and looked like the kind of place that pandered to the needs of stockbrokers and bankers with overpriced sandwiches and Earl Grey. As I neared it, the cops were already cordoning off the area.

  I ducked into the eatery and waded through the people inside. Businessmen, young traders in sharp suits, and a few garishly-dressed tourists. They were all crowded around the windows trying to see what had happened. I ordered a tea—wishing a pub had been nearby because Chai just wasn’t going to cut it right then—and took a seat, doing my best to fit in by throwing casual glances to the window to feign interest. A fire had started at the front of the car. One of the officers attacked it with a small fire extinguisher

  It won’t do any good.

  I waited for my moment, knowing that the best time to pick up information was going to be when the fire trucks showed up. I knew the process well enough to know there would be a period of transition when the fire department opened up the roads to gain access. That would be my window.

  More cop cars arrived. I counted four in all. Uniformed officers spilled from the vehicles and dashed to positions around the crippled vehicle. And then, a few minutes behind this, the unmistakable wail and the roar of a large engine broke through the other sounds. A fire truck approaching. Taking this as my cue, I downed the rest of my tea, slipped out through the side exit of the shop as discreetly as possible, and found an alleyway close to the crash. I was still far enough away from the scene so that the police wouldn’t be in my way, but if I dared to inch much further, there was a good chance I’d be spotted.

  I chanced a half step closer. The car was now hidden from sight by police officers and the front end of a fire truck that was currently blocking the same intersection Christina had tried to burst through. I did everything I could to blend into the chaos and appear to be nothing more than another lost pedestrian shocked at the glimpse of a mangled car.

  As it turned out, I was more than close enough. The police and firemen were yelling to one another over the din of stalled traffic and the loud rumble of the fire truck’s engine and I had no problem hearing them.

  “…and we need to clear the streets now if we want to get to the driver.”

  This was intermingled with another conversation, one closer to me and not as loud but still discernible.

  “Ambulance is on its way.”

  “Jesus, you think they might as well just send the coroner. No way anyone could have survived this crash. Any response out of the driver?”

  “None, sir. No verbal or physical response at all. If she’s gone, it’s safe to assume it will take forever to ID the body.”

  Being as nonchalant as possible, I removed my camera again and snapped a few more shots, after making sure the flash was off. I felt like a vulture preying on the carcass, but I fought down the uncomfortable sensation. I had a job to do.

  I checked the images I’d captured, then, not wanting to press my luck, started walking away at a clip. The timing was perfect. As I turned my back, officers approached the street and demanded everyone clear the vicinity.

  First, the noise hit me–an ungodly bang followed by the screech of twisting metal. Then a blast of heat struck me in the back, nearly throwing me to the ground. I stumbled, looked over my shoulder. A huge fireball billowed upward, turning the sky to liquid gold. All around, people screamed and scattered. The car was engulfed in orange flame. No one could have survived. The curtain was down on this show.

  Christina Bishop was gone.

  I jogged back to my car and thought about calling her boyfriend to tell him the unfortunate news. But I had never really been good with that. Breaking bad news needed tact—something I was often running low on. I figured he’d catch it on the news or get a call from the police within the next few hours anyway.

  With one final look towards the accident, I drove away, disappointed. This had had the makings of being a very interesting case. But now it was all over, the last pieces of it blazing in a heap of wrecked steel and ruined lives.

  THREE

  Grasping at the ragged shreds of hope.

  As it turned out, I guessed right. Christina’s boyfriend, Damian Slater, received the news just after midnight. According to the messages on my voicemail, and he’d spent the rest of his night and early morning hours watching footage of the wreck on the news. When I woke the following morning, my phone told me that I had five missed calls, all of which were from him.

  Damian hammered on my office door at eight thirty—about two hours earlier than I cared to start my day. When I opened the door, I instantly felt sorry for him. Although twenty-five, he had the look of a slow-witted teenager. There was no nice way to dance around it. The kid just looked dopey. The fact that he wore an impossibly trendy haircut and dressed like a hipster writing on his Mac in a coffee shop did not help.

  This morning though, he just looked tired and bereft. It was apparent by his bloodshot eyes that he had been crying for hours. I’d only had one cup of coffee and was not yet ready to speak with anyone, but I had to invite him in regardless. He was paying me exceptionally well, and from what I had gathered, his parents and siblings were scattered across the globe, so Christina had been the closest thing to family the kid had.

  I led him to the office, not wanting to expose him to the unkempt nature of the rest of my apartment.

  “I assume you know?” he said. His voice was haggard dry and ragged, as though he’d been crying all night.

  “Yeah,” I said, as I dropped into the battered recliner behind my desk and pointed him into the chair opposite. He declined the invite. Paced for a few seconds and then changed his mind, dropping into the spare seat. It squeaked loudly under the movement. My head pounded. It was either too early or I was too sober.

  “When did you hear?”

  I figured it would cause more pain than good to tell him the truth. He didn’t need to know I was practically right there when it happened. So I lied. It wouldn’t be the first time—or the last.

  “It came across the scanner just after midnight,” I said.

  Damian nodded. If he suspected me of lying, he showed no sign. “I just can’t believe it. My lovely Christina....”

  “I’m sorry,” I said, mainly because it’s all I knew to say. I had become all too familiar with grief, but it never got any easier.

  “She was innocent. Never hurt a fly. We met just as her career started to take off, you know. It never changed her. She was always this sweet, beautiful, down-to-earth girl, despite the attention… and she died because the cops insisted on charging her. You heard the
y were chasing after her when she crashed, right?”

  “I did.”

  “And where does that leave us?” Damian asked.

  “In terms of the case, you mean? Well,…there’s not much I can do. Even if I could prove her innocence, it really wouldn’t matter now.”

  “Of course it would!” Damian said as he slapped a palm down on my desk. Anger and sadness so often went hand in hand. “She was being falsely harassed by the police, and she died as a result of it. Someone in the Met can be brought to justice, right?”

  I considered it for a moment and then shrugged. “Possibly. But that would have to be some solid evidence of law-breaking rather than just police error. Besides that, with all due respect, now she’s gone, they’ll bury this thing so deep it probably won’t see the light of day ever again.”

  “This is bullshit,” Damian said.

  “You’re right. It is. That’s why I’m now a P.I. instead of a cop.”

  “So just like that, you’re going to drop the case?”

  “It’s a dead case, kid. I’m sorry.” I realized a second too late that those were probably not the best words to use.

  He apparently didn’t pick up on it, though. He was too busy leaning forward, his forearms on my desk. “I’ll pay you more.”

  I almost agreed right then and there. I was making good money now and with a little more saved up, I’d be able to afford an actual office rather than working out of my apartment.

  Sensing my hesitation, he pressed his hands together as if in prayer. The sorrow and desperation in his eyes nearly made me agree right there and then. “Look,” he said. “Christina could never drive like that; she only recently passed her test. I know this is going to sound stupid, but I don’t think she’s dead. I just have a feeling.”

  Damian was trying his hardest to buy some hope.