Behind the Closed Door: A Detective Series of Crime and Suspense Thrillers (The Jacob Hayden Series Book 2)
Page 8
I raised my sidearm. He still hadn’t moved.
“Police! Drop your weapon!”
His back was facing me. He appeared to be looking at the oncoming police cruisers that were now nearly on top of us.
“Russ Ackers, drop the gun!” I yelled again. “There’s nowhere to go!”
Finally, he slowly turned around. He didn’t raise his gun. It was still in his right hand by his side. He had a smirk on his face that frightened me.
Four police cruisers skidded to a stop and a troop of officers hopped out of their cars kneeling behind their doors with their guns ready.
“Drop your weapons!” I heard from across the street. They were talking to Russ Ackers and also to me. I wasn’t a cop in the state of Maryland. I wasn’t permitted to use police force to stop a suspect. I looked across the street and saw their guns trained on us.
I yelled back, “I’m a detective with the D.C.P.D. I’m lowering my weapon.”
I kept my eyes trained on Russ Ackers. I slowly knelt down and lay my firearm on the ground. I stretched out my arms to my side and kept my hands open to show that I wasn’t holding the gun any longer.
Russ Ackers hadn’t moved. He still had that strange smirk on his face like he knew something the rest of the world didn’t.
“You with the gun,” one of the officers yelled. “Drop your weapon and fall to your knees.”
He still didn’t move.
“Do what they say,” I said. “We can work this out.” I tried reasoning with him because a person doesn’t have that kind of smirk on their face in a situation like this unless they plan on doing something.
“Drop your weapon!” again came from across the street.
“Where’s Erin Smith?” I asked. “All I want is her.”
More sirens echoed in the distance which meant more firepower was heading this way.
“Don’t do this,” I pleaded. “You don’t have to go out like this. I can help you.”
His smirk finally went away and he spoke for the first time. “No, Detective Hayden, you can’t.”
He raised the gun to his head and pulled the trigger.
Thirty-two
The man named Max was back in his office. It was now in the middle of the afternoon, the day after the bank robbery. The three bags that held the stolen money were on the floor to the right of his desk. On top of the desk were bricks of money, evenly and neatly stacked. He counted it twice. In total they came away with five hundred and thirty-seven thousand dollars. Not bad for one night’s worth of work. He smiled at that thought because, in reality, the work started years earlier.
He had to plan and strategize and make sure he had the right people. Then he had to plan and strategize again and again to make sure he had the right people. One doesn’t pull off what he’s about to do without triple checking everything. Even now, as he counted the hundreds of thousands of dollars, his mind was evaluating what could have been done better. What could have made them more efficient, because soon he won’t be able to think, he’ll only be able to react. It’s kind of like when you hear professional athletes say that once they understood their position, the game slowed down and they no longer had to think, they could just play. That’s Max’s mind frame. Just play. Understand your position and the game will slow down.
When he finished with the money, he put it back in the duffel bags and kept them on the floor next to the desk. He opened one of the drawers and pulled out a manila file and opened it. There were various pictures of an older man wearing a dark suit, both walking to and leaving work. The man was fifty-eight years old, slim but out of shape. He had that kind of hairstyle some men have when they’re losing their hair. They try their hardest to comb their hair sideways, like it’s supposed to hide the fact that they’re balding. Max looked through the pictures. There were pictures of the man getting out of his car in his driveway. There were pictures of him in the morning leaving for work. There were pictures of him with his family loading in the car for whatever reason.
Max had been studying the man’s comings and goings for the past three months. His name was Dan Flynn and he was the branch manager of Citibank in Washington, D.C. Max knew that every morning, Dan Flynn left his house at 6:48. He stopped by the Starbucks three blocks from his house and ordered a grande coffee before heading into work. He took lunch at 12:30 like clockwork. And he arrived home at 6:30 every evening. His wife was a stay-at-home mom for their two kids, who were twelve and ten years old.
Max had even been inside Dan Flynn’s house. Twice to be exact. He knew the layout pretty well. A set of wooden stairs immediately met you when you enter the front door. If you decide not to go upstairs, you can walk past them and there will be an eat-in kitchen at the back of the house with a family room to its right. The basement was unfinished, just a large room covered with concrete.
Tonight was going to be the second robbery. Max knew that Dan Flynn’s bank was the bank of Phelps & Co., another construction company that was building a twelve-story building two blocks from the Verizon Center in downtown D.C. The building was going to be a luxury hotel, not that there aren’t enough in the city as it is. Fortunately, tomorrow is Phelps & Co.’s payday and a lot of construction workers cash their checks instead of depositing it straight into their accounts. This means that the bank will need to have more cash on hand than usual to cover payroll. Dan Flynn was going to get an unexpected visit tonight.
Max put the pictures back in the folder and closed the drawer. He was getting ready to leave when he heard his phone vibrate. He knew it was a text. Texts came with two buzzes and emails came with one. He pulled his phone from his pocket and looked at the text which read: Check out CNN right now.
He knew who sent it. In the corner of his office was a small thirteen-inch television. He pulled out a remote from the desk drawer and turned it on. He turned to the CNN channel and saw that CNN picked up a local story. There was a male reporter with short brown hair wearing a white button-up shirt and blue tie holding a microphone and speaking quickly into the camera. Max turned up the volume and caught the middle of the report. Behind the reporter were police cars with their lights flashing and yellow tape blocking off an intersection. Within the yellow tape, lay what Max knew was a body covered with a white sheet.
“Witnesses describe what they saw as shocking,” the reporter said. “We must warn you that what you’re about to see is graphic.”
The scene changed to what appeared to be someone filming with a smart phone or a hand held camera as the picture was jumpy. The angle was shot from above, maybe from an office window. A man being chased pulled out a gun and started shooting at a car. Whoever was filming the scene kept saying, “Oh my God…Oh my God…” The car skidded and sharply turned right. Seconds later a black man jumped out of the car and continued chasing the man. Police cars came into the scene and the man stopped at the intersection corner. The black man had a gun but dropped it when the police started yelling at them. Seconds later, the man who was being chased, turned around and said something to the black man, and then shot himself in the head.
The reporter started saying something else but Max turned off the TV. He sat back in his chair and digested what he just saw. His phone double buzzed again and Max looked at the text which read: What do we do now?
Max wrote back: We finish the job.
Seconds later a text came back: Are you sure that’s safe?
Max wrote back: Of course.
Thirty-three
By late afternoon, I was back in D.C. My body was tired from the energy I exerted chasing Russ Ackers. We spent close to three hours talking to Annapolis P.D. about the events of the day. I had given them my theory about why Erin Smith might have been in Annapolis. They told me that I should have talked to them about it, but hey, I was just going on a theory, nothing concrete. The detective in charge of the investigation told me that they’ll search the harbor and keep an eye out for Erin Smith’s boat. I had my doubts that she’d still be in the area.
I only live about ten minutes away from my precinct. If you’ve ever been to D.C. you’d know that, depending on the time of day, a ten-minute drive could take nearly an hour. Luckily today wasn’t one of those traffic headache days.
When I pulled in front of my house I saw my father-in-law, Pops, sitting on my front steps. He was holding Henry by the leash and looking down at his iPad. When Henry saw me, he leaped up and nearly dragged Pops to the ground. But Pops is a big man, close to my height at six feet three inches. He worked construction for nearly thirty-five years before recently retiring, so he had those strong, rough hands that felt like vice grips. When Henry leaped up, Pops momentarily lost his balance, but quickly tightened his grip on the leash and pulled Henry back. By now, Henry weighed about sixty pounds. Not many people can yank a dog of his size back with ease, but Pops did it.
“So what do I owe the pleasure?”
He stood up and we gave each other man hugs by slapping each other on the back a few times.
“Oh, I was in the neighborhood and figured that old Henry here might need a bathroom break. I know how your shifts can sometimes keep you out late.”
I pulled back from the embrace and gave Pops an inquisitive look. He and Mama J live out in Damascus, Maryland which is about forty-five minutes away.
“You were in the neighborhood, huh?”
“Why you looking at me like that?”
“No reason. Mama J here too?”
“No, just me.”
Now I raised my right eyebrow. Pops definitely doesn’t come down here without his wife. Something was up.
“All right. Have you eaten yet? I can order a pizza.”
“I had a sandwich inside.”
Pops was usually upbeat and always filled with life for someone in his mid-sixties. He looked like a shorter Michael Jordan. But in my opinion, Pops was probably in better shape than MJ. Usually he’d come at me talking smack and then I’d go at him. We’d go back and forth until either Mama J or Theresa told us to act our ages. But today he didn’t look like he was ready to jab.
“Well I’m starved. Come on in. I’ll get you a drink.”
I don’t keep alcohol in my house because a few years ago, I nearly lost all I had after becoming an alcoholic. Most of my adult life I never drank. I was always the designated driver whenever I went out with the fellas. Sometimes I was called a square, but I didn’t mind it. Then one day, I could have stopped a lunatic with a gun from shooting a kid, but I didn’t. The kid ended up dying and I became depressed. After that, I started drinking and became hooked. Theresa almost left me. I was nearly let go from the force. My life nearly spiraled out of control until I eventually opened my eyes and realized what I was doing. After that, I cleaned myself up and haven’t had a drink in nearly two years.
I pulled out a glass and filled it with lemonade.
“So you wanna tell me why you’re really here?”
Pops took a gulp. He was quiet for a moment. I could tell he was gathering his thoughts.
“Do you remember when we first met?” he asked.
“Of course. I was nervous as hell.”
That brought a slight smile to his face.
“Truth be told, so was I,” he said.
“Coulda fooled me.”
“Well, I had to give the impression that I was Mr. Rock Solid. But in reality, I was scared. Theresa dated a little before you. She had a boyfriend here and there. But she was always focused on her schooling. From the time she was a little girl, all she wanted to be was a doctor. Helping people was in her nature.”
He took another sip of lemonade.
“Then one day, she called her mother and said she met someone. She said he was a D.C. cop and that the two of you hit it off from the jump. I didn’t think too much of it at the time. She was still in med school and I knew she wanted to finish school before settling down. But then I started hearing your name more and more. It was always, Jacob this, or Jacob that. But what really got my heart jumping was when she asked us to meet you. I knew then that this was something serious.”
He downed the rest of the lemonade and made an “ah” sound.
“Do you know what’s one of the scariest things for a father to rationalize? The one thing we dread from the time we find out we’re having a girl? That one day, we’re going to lose our baby girl to another man. I did the best I could as a father in raising her. As a father you naturally become a protector and provider once that child is born. And you stay in that mode for a good part of twenty-plus years. Then one day, another man comes along and assumes that responsibility from you.”
He looked at me with wet eyes.
“You scared me because I knew you were the man who was going to take my baby from me.”
Now my eyes were wet.
“Don’t get me wrong, Jacob, I love you as if you were my own son. I’d jump in front of a train if it meant saving your life. I pretty much did.”
We both smiled at that comment.
“But for a brief moment when we first met, I hated you because I knew what was soon to come. But it wasn’t really you I hated, it was what you represented.”
I wiped my eyes with the back of my hand.
“You’re a good man, Jacob. If I had to lose Theresa to anyone, I’m glad it was you.”
I didn’t know what to say. Ever since my parents passed away, Pops and Mama J became my surrogate parents. I treated them as if they were my own blood, and they did the same. I understood what Pops was saying, but this was the first time he’d confided his feelings to me. I was at a loss for words. As men, we’re traditionally taught to mask our emotions. We’re taught that spilling our guts or crying is a form of weakness. But the way I look at it, what Pops just did was anything but weak.
“I miss her, Jacob.”
“I know. So do I.”
Thirty-four
Agent Jayden Davis woke up at five-thirty in the morning like she did every morning. Startled. As much as she hated it, she had to use the alarm clock with the loud buzzer that beeps in her ear. She always sits up in bed like they do in the movies when someone lunges awake from a scary dream. She’s a heavy sleeper and nothing else really works to yank her out of sleep. In the past, she tried using ring tones or music from her cell phone to wake her up, but it never worked. She believed that she didn’t get into her REM sleep until about three or four o’clock in the morning. And once in REM, it’s difficult to wake her up.
Oddly enough, as hard as it is for her to wake up, once she is awake, she is awake. She doesn’t have those morning lags that so many people have. She doesn’t need coffee or tea or some other wake-up potion to get her day going. Once her eyes open, she’s bright-eyed and ready for the day. Within ten minutes of waking up, she was in her living room wearing her jogging suit and ready to hit the pavement.
Her apartment is off Connecticut Avenue which is just a short drive to the Hoover building. She’s been with the Bureau for three years. Originally from the suburbs of Chicago, she attended the University of Chicago. She’d always been interested in the FBI, but didn’t think she had a chance because she didn’t major in science or computers or speak any foreign languages. That’s what she thought the FBI was recruiting. One day on campus, her school was holding its annual career day. Representatives from major corporations were there, along with government agencies. She talked with a recruiter from the FBI who told her they look at all candidates, regardless of their background. She was senior in college, so she figured what the hell, she’ll apply and see what happens. She didn’t get in on her first try, so she became a cop instead. Started off in patrol and then moved to detective. In total, she was a cop for eight years before trying the FBI again. Second time was a charm. Within a year, she was in Quantico, Virginia a
t the FBI’s training academy. After the academy, she was hoping to go to the Chicago field office, but she was told they were sending her to D.C. That was three years ago.
Her run usually took her down Connecticut Avenue until she got to the White House. Many years ago, the Secret Service made it so that no one could drive by the White House any longer. If people wanted to see the White House, they had to park and walk. Once she got to the White House, she turned left and ran to Freedom Plaza. Once there, she turned around and headed back home. D.C. is one of those cities that during the day and even at night you’d think it never slept. But once you get into the early hours of the morning, it was like a ghost town. Sometimes the silence of the city felt eerie.
But silence was good right now. Jayden’s mind was running through the events of the previous day. The bank robbery and the double murder. The first thing she quickly put to bed was that the robbers were amateurs. She’d seen amateurs before. Amateurs tend to leave behind evidence, one way or another. Sometimes its fingerprints, sometimes its tattoos caught on video, or the really dumb ones don’t even bother covering up their faces for the cameras. This robbery was more sophisticated and thought out. Jayden guessed that to pull off something like this, the robbers must have planned for months. That meant they were patient and methodical.
The bank was dusted for finger prints, primarily around and inside the bank vault. The only hits they got were of bank employees who were authorized to enter the vault. She knew forensics would go over the vault with a fine-toothed comb, but she had a hunch they wouldn’t find her robbers.
Her next task was to go through the Bureau’s database of any known criminals in the area that have prior records for bank robbery. She compiled a list of two dozen names, cross-referenced their backgrounds and was immediately able to knock off ten names for various reasons. The remaining names she cross-referenced again. Five, she found out, weren’t in the area at the time of the robbery. Three were dead. Another three were back in prison. That left three remaining inquiries that unfortunately had rock solid alibies.