Behind the Closed Door: A Detective Series of Crime and Suspense Thrillers (The Jacob Hayden Series Book 2)

by Charles Prandy

  I nodded.

  The plane took off minutes later.

  “I’m sure Agent Davis briefed you on what happened,” Director Spellman said, “but so far here’s what we’ve learned. Shortly after one this morning, an explosion went off in the hotel where the First Lady is staying. About a minute later a second explosion went off. These weren’t big explosions, but big enough to cause a panic.

  Secret Service rushed to the First Lady’s room only to find two of the agent’s guarding her room dead. They subsequently found two other agents dead on the floor below. And as you know, the First Lady is nowhere to be found. It’s likely she’s been taken. There’s no blood in the room or no other evidence to say that she’s been hurt. Agent Davis tells us that you’re the one who alerted her that the First Lady could be in danger.”

  “That’s correct, Sir.”

  “And that this Jack Smith could be involved in this.”

  “Correct.”

  “Please explain.”

  I took in a deep breath and told them my theory. I walked them through the case from the moment we first encountered Erin Smith to finding out that Jack wasn’t really dead. I told them about the bank robberies and the murders and how Erin and Jack were tied to them (most of this they already knew). I told them about Jack’s molestation and how a younger First Lady was supposedly the teacher involved. I told them that all of these things added up to Jack wanting his first love back and that he’d go through hell to get her.

  “Let’s wait a minute here,” Director Spellman said as he sat up in his seat. “So you’re saying that the First Lady of the United States of America molested a thirteen-year-old boy when she was a middle school teacher?”

  “According to Mrs. Smith, yes.”

  His eyebrows furrowed and he puckered his lips. “I’m sure you know that candidates for the presidency and their families are thoroughly vetted during the campaign process.”

  “I am.”

  “So something as potentially tragic as this would have come out.”

  “Sir, the only thing I can tell you is that Jack’s mother said that Jack begged her not to come forward. Was that the right choice? If he were my son, I damn well would have said something. But she decided not to pursue it and thus there was never an inquiry or investigation into it.”

  He sat back in his chair and looked at me for a few seconds before turning his attention to his two agents. He tapped his fingers along the arm of the chair without speaking. He did this for about ten seconds, but the silence in the room made it feel longer.

  Then he said to Special Agent Tim Russell, “Alert Secret Service that the First Lady could have been taken by Jack Smith.” He looked at his watch. “We need to set up a twenty mile search radius. Search everywhere. I don’t care what it is. We need to find the First Lady fast.”

  He next turned his attention to me, “Detective, if you’re right about this Jack Smith,” he paused, “never mind, we just need to find the First Lady.”

  I shook my head. I understood what he meant. We just need to find the First Lady.

  Seventy-three

  Thirty miles away, Jack drove north on I-476. He was still feeling the effects of the adrenaline pumping through his blood. He wanted to push the pedal to the floor but knew he needed to be smarter than that. He cruised at the highway’s posted speed limit. Even drove on the right hand lane where the slower people drove. He pulled it off. Years of planning and waiting have finally paid off.

  He glanced in the rearview mirror at himself. He looked different from when he was at the hotel. His shaved head was covered with a dark wig that looked amazingly real, and he had on a blue baseball cap. He took off his dress shirt and slacks and now wore a grey V-neck T-shirt and khaki shorts. He was driving a grey late model Chevy Malibu that neither stuck out or was easy to remember. It looked like any other car on the road.

  On the radio was the report of the bombing at the Rittenhouse Hotel. The DJ mentioned numerous times that the First Lady was staying there, but didn’t say if she were missing or not. Jack figured as much. The only ones who knew were law enforcement. By now he guessed they’d searched the entire building and had expanded their search.

  He changed the station until he found one playing music. He hummed along to the beat. His stomach rumbled. He hadn’t realized how hungry he was. He’d been sipping water and power bars for the past two days. An exit came up with signs for fast food. One mile later he was on the ramp and stopped at a McDonald’s drive-thru that was open late night. He was the third car in line when a State Trooper pulled behind him. He tensed for a second but realized that the State Trooper was just ordering food like him. The line moved swiftly and soon Jack had his food in hand.

  He ate while he drove, inhaling the Big Mac that he ordered. He saw signs to get back onto the interstate, but then he heard a hissing sound and felt the car wobble. Great, he thought. A flat tire. A side street was twenty yards up ahead. He made a right and stopped the car on the side of the road. As he opened the door, the same State Trooper that was behind him in line, turned and pulled behind him again.

  Jack instinctively reached for his Smith & Wesson, but the trooper hadn’t flashed his lights and didn’t aggressively get out of his car so Jack quickly put his hand by his side.

  The State Trooper walked up to Jack’s car, “Saw your tire go flat back there. Figured you could probably use a hand.”

  Jack smiled, “Thanks for the help, but I can change this thing in a jiffy. I wouldn’t want you to get your uniform all dirty on my account.”

  The trooper waved him off, “No bother. It’ll give me an excuse to not get back on the road right away.”

  Jack was about to say no thanks again, but didn’t want to unnecessarily cause any suspicion. His rationale was why would someone continue to say no to a cop who’s willing to help with a flat tire unless they’ve got something to hide. Which Jack did.

  “I’ve got one of those power jacks in my trunk,” the trooper said. “It’ll lift the car up in seconds.”

  The trooper turned back to his car. Jack had to act quickly if he was going to pull this off. He found the trunk’s release button inside the car. The two suitcases from hotel were in the trunk, right over the spare tire. The first suitcase was a breeze to lift. The second and larger one was measurably heavier. By the time he’d lifted it and placed it by the side of the car, he’d broken into a light sweat.

  The trooper came back with the power jack and saw Jack sweating. “Can’t believe how warm it is without the sun.”

  “Yeah, this August heat is a real killer.”

  “It’s the dang humidity. If I even walk fast I’ll break into a sweat.”

  Jack nodded and smiled. The trooper bent down and placed the jack underneath the car. With a couple of pumps the car was lifted enough on one side. The trooper took the crow bar and started taking off the lug nuts.

  “So you’re from outta state?”

  The trooper pointed to the tags.

  “Yeah, up visiting family.”

  The trooper pulled off the tire. “Good time to travel.”

  Jack rolled the spare to the trooper and put the flat tire in the trunk. Just then there was a faint sound coming from one of the suitcases. Jack’s eyes widened. Did he hear what he thought he heard? The suitcase was only about four feet from the State Trooper. Jack peeked around the trunk’s hood and saw the trooper looking at the suitcase. Jack glanced at the suitcase and saw it start to move.

  Shit.

  “What the hell?” the trooper said. He reached for his gun, but Jack was a half a second faster. Before the trooper had it unlatched from its holster, Jack pumped one bullet into the back of his head.

  The sound was silent. The silencer was still attached to the gun. The trooper’s body slumped over the suitcase. Jack looked around. It was dark and there wasn’t much traffic where they were parked. He hurriedly tightened the lug nuts and lowered the car from the jack. He put the suitcases back in the trunk. The
First Lady was conscious but she couldn’t be totally conscious, Jack thought. He looked around again, no one was around. He dragged the trooper back to his car and put him in the front seat.

  Jack got back into the Chevy Malibu and took off towards the highway. He planned on getting off at the next exit to find another car to steal.

  Seventy-four

  Chaos was the best way to explain it. But the chaos was somewhat controlled. We approached the road block to the hotel. It was filled with media vans. On the side of the street, there were dozens of reporters in front of cameras giving the latest news on the hotel bombing. By now the country knew this was the hotel the First Lady was staying in, but what they didn’t know was her status. Locals stood on the side of the road curious like everyone else as to what happened at the hotel.

  Agent Davis was behind the wheel. She flashed her FBI badge to the cop controlling the road block and he let us through. We were met by Secret Service Agent, Roger Thorn, the agent in charge of the First Lady’s security detail. He shook hands first with Director Spellman, maybe out of courtesy or simply because they knew each other. Director Spellman introduced everyone as we walked to the hotel.

  “So, Detective Hayden, you’re the one who figured this out?” Agent Thorn said. He was a tall guy, about my height, with a thick neck and strong hands. He looked like he spent his free time in the gym. “Wish you would’ve let us know before this whole thing went haywire.”

  “It was just a hunch at first,” I replied. “But then when Agent Davis said that something was wrong at the hotel I knew it was Jack Smith.”

  “So tell me, what made you link this Jack Smith to the First Lady in the first place?”

  I looked over at Director Spellman and he answered for me. “That information may be classified, Roger. We’ll need to discuss it with the President before we make any statements.”

  “You’re shitin’ me. I’m in charge of the First Lady’s detail. Any information regarding her safety is my priority.”

  “I know. It’s a sensitive issue and we’ll need to discuss it with the President first.”

  Agent Thorn was about to protest again, but decided against it. He walked us through the hotel and told us where the two bombs were found. He then took us to the First Lady’s room. Nothing looked out of place. The room was neat and intact with the exception of the bed where the blanket on the left side was moved back.

  “He grabbed her while she was sleeping,” I said.

  Agent Thorn nodded. “He must have sedated her in some way. The First Lady’s a feisty woman. Judging by the neat conditions of the room she didn’t seem to put up a fight.”

  “Does the hotel have surveillance?” I asked.

  “The lobby and exits. We’ve already checked them. He must have sneaked her out during the bombings. We suspect they were just decoys.”

  “Do you mind if I take a look?”

  Agent Thorn led us to the hotel’s security room. One agent was in a seat reviewing the security tapes. Agent Thorn told the agent to pull up the footage one minute before the first bomb went off. Six smaller screens came up with views of the lobby and hallways. The agent brought up the two screens with the best view of the lobby: one from behind the main counter and another from across the room. The agent started the tape. The lobby showed a woman behind the counter. Two people casually walked through the lobby in different directions. A third person, a man, entered the lobby with two suitcases. He walked to the main counter and spoke briefly with the female clerk and then the camera shook from the first bomb. The man and woman in the lobby looked stunned. Then seconds later, the camera shook again from the second bomb. The woman climbed over the counter and ran and the man grabbed his suitcases and followed.

  “Can you rewind that again?” I asked. “Right before the first bomb went off.”

  The agent rewound the footage. The man and woman spoke. The woman looked at her monitor. The man had a pen in his right hand. The woman placed a bill receipt on the counter. The man clicked the pen and then the first bomb went off.

  “There, did you see that.” I pointed to his hand.

  The agent rewound the tape again.

  “Son of a bitch,” Director Spellman said. “He activated the bomb from his pen.”

  The tape continued. We watched as the man lowered his hand and pushed the pen’s button again and then the second bomb went off.

  “He shaved his head and grew a beard,” I said. “I probably wouldn’t have recognized him if I saw him on the street.”

  Agent Thorn told the agent reviewing the tape to print out copies of Jack’s new image.

  I looked at my watch. It was nearing three in the morning. Jack left the hotel at one-twenty. So he had almost a one and a half hour lead on us.

  Agent Thorn turned his attention to me as if he read my mind. “Any ideas where he’s heading? You seem to have a feel for this Jack fellow.”

  I didn’t know. I’m not familiar with the area. Jack could be anywhere with a one-and-a-half-hour lead.

  I shook my head. “I don’t know.”

  “What do you think he wants with the First Lady?”

  Director Spellman was about to give his classified answer again but Agent Thorn raised his hand, “I’m only wondering if we should be expecting some sort of ransom call.”

  “I don’t think so,” I said. “This isn’t about money.”

  “What’s it about then?”

  Agent Thorn looked at Director Spellman, “Dammit, Jim, you’ve gotta give me something here.”

  “Love,” I said.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Director Spellman shook his head, “Look, Roger, this guy’s sick. Whatever thing he has for the First Lady is all inside his head.”

  “Jesus, is this guy some sorta perverted psycho?”

  “We’ve already said too much,” Director Spellman said. “Let’s just focus on finding this guy.”

  We walked to the front of the hotel and huddled in a circle. We kinda looked like a football team wearing suits. Then minutes later, an FBI Agent came up to Director Spellman and said something into his ear.

  “A State Trooper was shot in the back of the head near an exit off I-476,” Director Spellman said.

  Something clicked inside my head. “How far is that from here?”

  Director Spellman asked the agent for a map. We walked to a car and placed the map on the car’s hood. We found the location. It’s about thirty miles from here. My mind started turning. With my finger I followed the highway further north until I found what I was looking for.

  “Shit,” I said. “I think I know where he’s going.”

  Seventy-five

  Jack stood in front of the door. It’s aged since the last time he saw it. The darkness of the emerald green had faded and now bits of rust lived on its exterior. He reached for the handle, the same one he reached for so many times when he was thirteen. Back then it was a shiny grey metal, but not so much now. The handle was locked. Jack expected as much. It was locked back then as well. But Jack knew how to open the door. That was one of the secrets that Rosemary Hubert taught him. She showed him that if you just lift the handle a little, then push in and twist the handle down, the door will unlock. She said it was a flaw in the manufacturing of this particular lock. Jack twisted the handle like he did so many times before, and the door opened with a click.

  His heart momentarily raced.

  He entered the room. The air was stale and dark. His mind immediately flashed back to when he was thirteen. Ms. Hubert found him after school and asked if he could help her with a box from the storage room. He told her sure, that it was no problem. Ms. Hubert was his favorite teacher. She was the favorite teacher of most of the boys in his grade.

  By the age of thirteen, Jack was nearly six feet tall. He had a mature teenager’s body with toned arms and broad shoulders. The high school football coach couldn’t wait for Jack to start the ninth grade so he could get him out on the field. But this
was middle school and Jack had just started the eighth grade. Buses were taking kids home for the day. The school’s grounds were quickly emptying. Ms. Hubert promised Jack that she’d give him a ride home for being such a gracious student for helping her. Jack didn’t mind. He would have walked the two miles home if it meant being with Ms. Hubert for a little while longer. Back then Suzanne Somers from the show, Three’s Company, was who Ms. Hubert resembled. She had long blond hair with a thin waist and toned legs.

  As they walked around the back of the school to the storage room, Ms. Hubert asked if Jack’s parents would be upset if he was home late. Jack said he had never met his dad and that his mom worked evenings. So usually he was home alone until about eight or nine o’clock. Ms. Hubert put her hand on Jack’s shoulder and smiled and promised not to have him home too late. The way she smiled at Jack wasn’t like anything he was used to. His thirteen-year-old hormones shot through the roof.

  Finally they made it to the storage room. Ms. Hubert had a key but told Jack how to open the door without one. The room was dark and musty and smelled of stale air. She told him that no one hardly comes back here anymore. There were two windows at opposite ends of the walls, but boxes and other school stuff covered most of the natural light. The door closed behind them with a loud bang, startling young Jack.

  A dim light came on which barely gave more light than what already was in the room. Jack asked which boxes she needed help with, but from behind, Ms. Hubert slid her hands around Jack’s waist and Jack felt her breasts press against his back.

  He was at a loss for words. He didn’t know how to respond. Ms. Hubert turned him around and told him to just follow her lead. He did. They kissed and undressed and ten minutes later Jack was no longer a virgin. Now he stood in the room twenty-seven years later where he lost his virginity. Everything nearly looked the same with the exception of a few different boxes here and there.