*
Sitting at his desk, Jake wondered how his personal life got so messed up. He was the one who never got involved. ‘Love’em and leave’em’ was a motto he lived by until now. His job came first. Jake found it hard to concentrate. His mind was on not one, but two women. Each so different and lovely in her own way.
Pulled from his thoughts by the intercom, Jake picked up his phone. “Yes, Katrina?”
“Detective Stack asked me to relay a message to you.”
What the hell was his game? He has my cellphone number.
“What is it?”
“He’s following a lead on the Church case, and he’ll call you later with an update.”
Stupid son of a bitch, Jake thought, Stack’s taking off by himself.
“Did he leave his location?”
“No.”
“Son of a bitch.” Jake swore under his breathe.
“Excuse me?”
“Nothing, Katrina. Thanks.”
Jake hung up, wondering what the lead could possibly be? He’d welcome any lead at this point, because he’d hit a wall on this one. Church pulled a Jimmy Hoffa, leaving not one Goddamn clue as to where he went or who took him.
Restless, he got up from his desk, left his office, and walked over to the community coffee pot in the bullpen. He started to pour himself a cup of coffee when Louie walked up behind him.
“Something wrong with the machine Sophia and I gave you for Christmas?”
“No.”
“You look perplexed.”
“I am.”
Louie was involved in the missing persons case, so he bounced ideas and leads off of him. Jake just couldn’t discuss personnel with him. Though Louie would be an asset here with his puzzle-solving mind…Jake made a decision, looking at Louie. The hell with procedure.
“Want to do lunch today?” He put the pot down, emptied the untouched contents of his cup into the sink attached to the counter.
“You still working that missing persons case?” Louie asked.
“Yep, why?”
“Just wondering. Where do you want to eat?”
“Anywhere private’s good.”
“Come and get me when you’re ready.”
Jake’s gaze tracked around the bullpen before landing on Louie’s back as he walked to his desk. There were ten desks, all clustered in the middle of the room. Around the perimeter of the room were four hard, wooden benches for family members of prisoners, victims, attorneys, and the general public. Two of the benches were occupied. One with a crying, elderly lady—Jake figured she was here for a kid or a grandkid. The other held a pair of teenagers trying to look tough, but not succeeding. Out of the ten desks in the bullpen, there were detectives sitting at only four. Two were on the phone and two sat with suspects or witnesses answering questions. He liked homicide and thought the department ran well, not to pat himself on the back. Homicide investigations were logical. You followed hard evidence, most of the time.
Jake smacked himself on the head. Like a ton of bricks it hit him. A missing persons case should run the same way as a homicide—only the body was missing. Jake felt out of sync on the case all along, trying to follow someone else’s investigation techniques. He practically ran to his office and grabbed the file. Opening it, he lined up all the information he’d gathered then arranged it like he would with one of his homicide cases. Either way he looked at it, Church’s disappearance looked like an organized effort. Gambling made for strange bedfellows.
*
While Jake was picking apart his case, Stack drove through Middletown on his way to meet Phil. The streets were busy this time of day. He liked Middletown better than Wilkesbury. It had more restaurants and shops. Phil’s call this morning made him think. It seemed like Phil had forgiven him for his indiscretion. He wanted to discuss some new business. He needed the money so that was good. He drove over the Portland Bridge at a mere ten miles per hour. The damn construction was going to last another year. He checked the GPS to see how much longer before he turned onto Route 16. Phil chose a little bar on Route 16. It was half way for both of them. Good choice, Phil, Stack thought. I could use a drink. Damn, if that bastard in front of him didn’t hurry up, he’d be late. He couldn’t afford to screw this up and make Phil unhappy again. Checking his dashboard for the time. Christ, eleven o’clock already, I’m cutting it close. He wanted a little extra time to case the place before he met with Phil. Pulling into a mini-mart, he checked his weapons. The Glock in his ankle holster was loaded, the safety off for a quick grab and shoot. An old-fashioned kind of guy he liked his thirty-eight special, which was in his shoulder holster, loaded and at the ready. He didn’t trust Phil. Stack learned early in his career to listen to his instincts. They’d kept him alive for many years. He pulled out of the parking lot, driving east, and found the bar five miles down the road.
Stack pulled up to the front of the plaza, parked as far from the building as he could. Practically sitting on the road, surveying the front of the buildings and all the cars, he tried to pick out Phil’s ride. Nothing came close to his usual mode of transportation. After assessing the front lot, he drove around to the back. The back wall of the restaurant sported two small windows—probably restrooms. One screened wooden door stood wide open leading into the kitchen. The other door must be the back entrance. A silver four-door BMW 330SI sat close to the back entrance. Stack figured it belonged to Phil. He drove around to the front and parked as close to the building that he could.
The bar was unusually dark as Stack walked in, forcing him to squint to see. Not good, he thought. He could be in Angelo’s sights right this minute. A shiver ran up his spine. Was this a set-up? When he called Katrina and left that message for Carrington, he should have left his location. Hindsight was great, but he couldn’t leave now. He reached into his pocket, touched the knife for comfort.
His vision cleared as his eyes adjusted to the darkness. He took in the whole room, noting exits. A bartender the size of Texas stood behind the bar, washing a glass. It was an ordinary bar. A mirrored wall with shelves housed the liquor. It also gave the bartender a view of the room with his back turned. A highly polished bar with ten bar stools bellied up to it. On the right side were booths, and in the last one, he spotted Phil. Stack’s internal antenna went up—where was Angelo? The hairs on his neck stood straight up. Phil never traveled alone. He started walking slowly to Phil as he looked in every booth he passed. He reached Phil’s booth and took a seat opposite him.
“Hi, Phil.”
“Carl. Is anything wrong?” Phil smiled at him.
“Where’s Angelo?”
“I have him doing other things today, why?”
“I’ve never seen you without him.”
Stack placed his folded hands on the table. Phil grabbed them and applied an incredible amount of pressure. Stack tried his damndest not to show any pain or weakness, but it was tough going.
“Who I travel with, Carl, is my business. Is that clear?”
“Extremely.” Arrogant little prick.
Phil released his grip on Stack’s arm. Carl refrained from rubbing his hands. He didn’t want to give Phil the satisfaction of knowing that he’d hurt him.
“Good, now let’s get down to business.” The man’s a psycho, Stack thought.
Phil talked for over an hour, detailing what evidence he needed Stack to supply to him. Stack scratched his head. Phil could have asked for all this information over the phone. So, what was the deal? He wasn’t a nervous kind of guy, but Phil was scaring him today. Glad when the meeting came to an end, Stack decided he’d be better off heading back to Wilkesbury than staying here and having a drink. Sliding across the booth he started to stand, when Phil signaled for the bartender. His bowels loosened as he held his breath, leaning forward, reaching for his ankle holster.
“Tony, bring us a couple of beers,” Phil said to the bartender, turning back to Stack with a smile. “Nervous Carl? You’re sweating.”
“No,
it’s warm in here. I need to get back to the station, Phil. I’m still on duty.”
He straightened, releasing his hold on the gun.
“One beer won’t hurt you, Carl.”
What choice did he have? “Okay.”
The bartender delivered the beers and Stack sipped his, wondering what Phil was up to. The beer cooled his throat as it slid passed his lips and tongue. There was nothing like that first sip, he thought. What he wouldn’t give to be sitting on a tropical island right now.
“I think there’s something wrong with this beer.” Stack looked at the bottle. He put it to his nose and took a sniff.
“Why?”
“It’s bitter as hell.”
“Mine isn’t,” Phil replied, and took a sip. “You want to switch?”
“No.”
With a keen eyes Stack studied the bottle before lifting it to his lips. Don’t turn down a free drink, he thought. Gulping it right down, his was half gone compared to Phil’s who nursed his. He drank fast, wanting to get the hell out of there. Just about done, when Phil spilled his drink on him. Stack jumped up. Damn stupid, clumsy bastard. I’m sure Phil did that on purpose.
“I’m sorry, Carl.” Phil motioned the bartender over.
Sorry my ass. Stack grabbed the cloth from the guy and wiped the excess drink off his pants. Throwing the towel on to the table, he turned to Phil.
“I should get on the road.” Using the spill as an excuse he left the bar.
Out in the car, he wondered why Phil had called the meeting. They really didn’t need to meet. He received his orders from Phil dozens of times on the phone before. Why meet for this? Christ, I smell like a brewery. All I need to complete my day now would be to be pulled over by some hick cop. Once in his car, he was headed back down Route 16 when the poison kicked in. Convulsions. His face and then his neck stiffened. Incredibly sharp pain shot through his body. Next, spasms hit his arms and legs, pinning his foot to the accelerator as his body arched backward. He couldn’t control the car. On this section of the road, if he went off, he’d be in the woods, or worse, in the lake. He’d drown. His back arched farther back, pinning his head to the headrest. He couldn’t see where he was going. It’s so hot in here. Sweat dripped off his forehead, burned his eyes. That bastard put something in my drink. My God, the pain! What the hell did Phil give me? I bet he made sure I’d suffer. Oh, God. May the bastard rot in Hell. What did I do…to deserve this? Praying for death, fighting for life, he felt each spasm of pain rack his entire body. Stack’s car shot across the road, hit the guardrail and crashed through it, hitting trees and bushes before landing in the middle of the lake, still in excruciating pain. Fear increased his five senses as cold water washed over his body. He tried to scream for help, but no sound came out of his mouth as the water rushed in…
Chapter Thirty
Head pounding, the air bounced back his anger tenfold. Grateful for Louie’s silence Jake never letting up on the gas pedal as they drove through Middletown. After Stack left the message with Katrina, the squad secretary, he couldn’t get this one question out of his head. Who did Stack meet today? Stack’s death was senseless. Whoever did this must think we’re getting too close to the truth on the Church case. Was it Church himself, or his escorts?
“Jake, tell me again what the state trooper said,” Louie said.
“He said he smelled of beer, but he knew for a fact that wasn’t what killed him.”
“How can he be so sure?”
“He said, and I quote, ‘The cause of death was written on his face.’ He said we needed to see it to understand it.”
“Oh good. I love a mystery.”
“It’s not funny, Louie,” Jake snarled.
“I didn’t say it was, Jake. Calm down. I don’t understand why the state trooper just didn’t give you all the information. What’s the big fucking secret?” Louie shook his head.
“We’ll see.”
The turn came up fast. Jake figured he was in the right spot. Fifty police cars, both state and local, ambulances, fire trucks, and emergency response vehicles parked on the side of the road. He understood why all the manpower. They’d responded to an officer in trouble. He climbed out of his car and walked with Louie down the embankment, sensing the mood of the responders. The conversation was respectful, quiet, the mood somber. None of the usual dark humor…cops’ humor…you heard at a scene that relieved tension. It could have been any one of them. They were here to help, and also to reaffirm that they were alive for another day.
A trooper with stripes on his arm greeted them.
“Sergeant?”
“Lieutenant Carrington?” He held out his hand at Jake’s nod. “I’m Sergeant MacDermid. Thanks for coming so quickly.”
“We ran hot.”
MacDermid pointed farther down the embankment. “It’s not pretty.” He started to walk down toward the stretcher.
The body was covered by the standard white sheet. Jake walked behind MacDermid, his thoughts all over the place, his footing careful. He wondered how the trooper wore that hat all day long. He shook his head to clear his thoughts. Weird what popped into your head before you viewed a body.
The last conversation he had with Stack replayed in his head. It wasn’t friendly or kind. Accusations—Jake accused him of purposely throwing a case, suspecting him of bribery. He’d have to live with that though the facts hadn’t changed because Stack died. In fact, it confirmed Jake’s suspicions. This was a stupid move on the part of the killer. It would draw more attention to him. Killing a cop brought down more heat than the devil supplied in Hell for an entire year.
Louie cursed behind him. Jake turned around, containing his laughter at Louie’s scowl. Louie had stepped in something, ruining Mr. Fastidious’ shoes. Jake turned back without comment. His gaze traveled to Stack’s car, which sat on the embankment. It had already been pulled from the lake in order to retrieve the body.
Over his shoulder, he asked Louie, “Are you ready?”
“Yeah.”
Trooper Sergeant MacDermid pulled the sheet back as Jake and Louie surrounded the stretcher. Jake gasped. Louie gagged. Even experienced as they both were, their faces showed horror in viewing Stack’s body. The faces of the responders held the same expression. Stack looked like one of the corpses from a horror movie, with his twisted features and stiff body. Rigor mortis had already set in. That baffled Jake, so he walked over to the coroner to ask.
After introducing himself, Jake asked, “Isn’t it too soon for rigor mortis?”
“Certain poisons will bring it on sooner. If my guess is right, someone liked to read,” the coroner replied.
“Why’s that?”
“The set features, the early rigor mortis tells me, and it’s just a guess, you understand. I think they used strychnine to poison him. That shit’s only used in books…mostly,” he reflected. “You want someone to suffer, strychnine would be your substance of choice.”
“How fast does it react?” Jake asked, while the sergeant and Louie listened in.
“Ten to twenty minutes, depending on the contents of the stomach. If alcohol was involved—and I don’t know if it was, but he smells of beer—it would be quicker.”
“So we look for a bar within ten to twenty minutes of here. Thanks, Doc.” Jake turned to Louie and the trooper.
“Lieutenant, I know you’re going to look for your answers and do your own investigation. I would if it was one of my men. But, I want to caution you, this is our case and we don’t want it tainted. You need to take one of my guys, or one of the locals, with you. You’ll get your answers faster that way around here and it’ll keep the chain of evidence intact.”
“Thanks, Sergeant. I don’t mean to step on anyone’s toes. This case ties in to one of my missing persons cases.”
“Name’s Cale, Lieutenant. I thought you were Homicide.”
“I’m Jake, this is Louie.” Jake nodded toward Louie. “I…we are, but for now I’m also running the Missing Persons de
partment. Stack was attached to that unit. And off the record, Sergeant, I think both cases tie into the mob.”
The sergeant let out a low whistle. “Whatever I can do to help, I will. I’ll keep you in the loop. It wouldn’t make sense to duplicate our efforts.” A veiled warning, Jake thought.
Jake needed space to make notes, room to think through what he just saw and heard. Stack’s family probably needed to have a closed coffin. Jake didn’t know if the undertaker would be able to rid the face of the last painful minutes of Stack’s life. Jake didn’t like him. Nevertheless, nobody deserved to suffer like that. Looking around, he observed the woods and water. The drop off the road was a good fifty feet, if not more. Stack sailed through the guardrail, eventually landing in the lake. Jake made a note to ask about Stack’s speed when he went through the guardrail. Louie walked over while he was writing.
“Christ, I’m going to see his face in my dreams for a long time.”
“Hmmm.” Jake continued writing.
“And look at my shoes.” Louie shook his head in disgust.
“You can look at that body with all the pain and suffering that was inflicted on him and still comment on your shoes? You’ve become hardened, Louie.” Jake quirked a brow at him.
“I guess, but I paid a hundred twenty-five dollars for these shoes. They were comfortable, now they’re trash,” he said, aggravated.
Not caring about Louie’s shoes, Jake walked back to the body. “MacDermid, how many bars are in this area?”
“From the direction he came from, I’d say two.”
“Do you have the names?”
“I plan on visiting them after we finish up here. You’re welcome to accompany me.”
Well, I’ve certainly been put in my place. “That sounds good.”
What choice did he have? If he didn’t like the answers he received with the state trooper present, Jake would come back at another time. It wasn’t his investigation, but Goddamn it, Stack was one of his men. No way was he going let the trooper delegated him to the back of the investigation.
Burn in Hell_A Jake Carrington Mystery Page 23