Dead Lawyers Don't Lie: A Gripping Thriller (Jake Wolfe Book 1)

by Mark Nolan

  Jake noticed the surprised look on Ryan’s face. He figured that Ryan probably thought he was either fearless or crazy. Jake’s own theory was that he had a unique smell, of someone who had no fear of animals. The scent of a former military dog handler who could talk to dogs, understand them and live with them in a pack, side by side through hell and back.

  Terrell said, “Thanks for the coffee and Vitamin I. My headache is something fierce today.”

  “Why do you always get headaches, Terrell?” Ryan asked.

  “It’s from allergies to… air pollution,” Terrell answered. He glanced at Jake.

  Jake caught Terrell’s look and he purposely changed the subject. “If it’s alright with you Ryan, I’ll go ahead and take a quick photo or two, and then let you get back work.”

  “I owe Jake a photo, he gave me one of the shooter up in this tree,” Terrell said.

  Terrell held out his phone and showed Ryan the photo of the killer, up in the tree, pointing a rifle at Jake as he was taking the picture.

  Ryan raised his eyebrows. “Jake you’re lucky you didn’t get shot.”

  “I’m part Irish, so lucky stuff like this happens to me all the time,” Jake said.

  “Or in your case, my brother, it might just be dumb luck,” Terrell said, and he smiled.

  “He’s your brother?” Ryan said.

  Terrell nodded. “My brother from another mother.”

  “One time when we were deployed overseas I got shot and almost died,” Jake said. “But Terrell gave me a blood transfusion, and now we are officially blood brothers. I owe him my life.”

  Jake began shooting photos of the tree and of Hank.

  Terrell received another text. He read the message and said, “The Chief says it’s okay for Jake to take a photo of the note.”

  Ryan took a plastic evidence bag out of his pocket and held it out toward Jake.

  Jake saw a card with words printed on it in block letters.

  DEAD LAWYERS DON’T LIE

  Ryan held the note while Jake took photos of it, alongside Hank’s scowling face.

  Jake said, “I really appreciate this Ryan. Terrell and I often take a boat out on the bay to do some fishing. You’re invited to come along on the next trip.”

  “Sounds good,” Ryan said.

  “We definitely need to go out on the bay again real soon,” Terrell said, and he pressed his fingers against his forehead.

  “We can take the Far Niente out on the water anytime,” Jake said. “I just have to let Dylan know I’m going to borrow his boat.”

  The men said their goodbyes. Jake took the empty coffee cup from Terrell and put it in his camera pack, then walked down the trail.

  Terrell said, “Thanks, Ryan. I’ve got to go face the media now and give them a statement.”

  Terrell started walking back in the direction of the first green. When he came out of the woods area, the media crowd saw him heading directly toward them with a purposeful stride. They pointed their microphones and television cameras at him and began yelling questions. He stopped in front of the crowd, held his hands up for quiet and waited to speak until everyone stopped talking. When the crowd was quiet he gave a speech in his best deadpan cop voice.

  “At approximately 12:15 this afternoon, San Francisco defense attorney Richard Caxton was playing golf here when he was shot in the chest by one round from a high powered rifle. He died almost immediately from his wound. We have reason to believe the shooter was waiting in ambush, up in a tree in the woods over there.”

  Terrell pointed toward the wooded area and then continued talking.

  “Our K9 Unit found the tree and followed the alleged perpetrator’s trail to a nearby street where the scent ended. At this point we believe the shooter got into a vehicle there and drove away. When we know anything further we’ll give you an update. That is all for now.”

  Everybody started yelling questions at Terrell again, but he turned and walked away. He was willing to toss the media a bone at this point but he was not going to let them demand answers from him.

  One reporter’s question rang out louder above the rest.

  “Who wanted that lawyer dead?”

  Someone else in the news crowd said, “Who didn’t?”

  As Terrell walked away he said, “That’s exactly what I plan to find out.”

  Chapter 12

  Jake walked back to the Jeep, sat in the driver’s seat and turned on his tablet computer. He used a small wireless Bluetooth keyboard to tap out a quickly written blurb to go along with his photos and video. He was calling the news story “The Attorney Assassination.”

  He attached the document to an email along with several of the photos and videos he’d taken, and he sent it to his editor’s secretary, Debbie. Nobody else had these photos or videos yet. They all added up to an exclusive, a scoop.

  Hopefully this scoop would help Jake remain gainfully employed for at least another week or two. His job was hanging by a thread due to the way news organizations were laying off so many photojournalists. The Chicago Sun Times had actually handed out layoff notices to its entire photography staff, every single person including a famous Pulitzer Prize winning photojournalist.

  “Having a friend in the police department sure does help me with some of these crime news stories,” Jake said. “Of course, I helped him with his investigation today too.”

  Jake was used to thinking out loud this way and talking to Gracie, his black Lab. They’d been a great team. As he thought about Gracie, Jake flipped down the sun visor of the jeep and looked at her picture that he kept there. In the photo, Gracie gave him a toothy grin, the graying hair on her muzzle showing her age.

  “Hey Gracie, I miss you girl.” Jake touched his fingers to the photo, and he felt a lump in his throat. He closed the visor, took a deep breath and let it out.

  Jake’s phone vibrated and he saw that it was a call from Norman, his grouchy boss at the television/internet news station. Norman had probably seen the email and exclusive photos. Now he wanted to complain and criticize as usual. Jake was still angry at Norman for sending him to a noisy topless bar on the night Stuart had died. “This is never good. Having a boss sucks.”

  Jake ignored the call and thought about how he missed the freedom of working as a freelance photographer. There was no guaranteed paycheck but there was also no boss to answer to. Freelancing was similar to being an entrepreneur. He’d also been able to travel the world. Jake liked that lifestyle the best. Today might be the day he had to kick his boss in the crotch and get himself fired. He wondered if maybe he should seek psychiatric counseling for his self-destructive compulsion to kick his bosses in the cojones. No it seemed perfectly reasonable to him, so why waste time and money talking to a shrink about it? He tapped an icon on his phone to ignore the repeated calls from his boss.

  At the crime scene near the first tee, Beth Cushman thought of an idea on how to get rid of Denton and Kirby.

  “Look you two, this is our case, not yours. If you want to loiter here you’ll have to make yourselves useful.”

  “What are you going to do instead?” Denton asked.

  “I want to drive over to Brian Tate’s place of employment, and sweat him. Tate threatened Caxton in court, and now Caxton is in a body bag. I like Tate for this murder.”

  Denton’s mouth hung open for a moment and then she said, “Well you know we’d like to help you Cushman, but we were just rolling past here on our way to someplace else. We’ve got to get going.”

  Denton immediately took off walking toward the car.

  Kirby said, “Uhm, Beth I was wondering if you might want to go...”

  “No, I wouldn’t. I go straight home after work and spend time with my son. Same answer as always, so give it a rest, okay? Don’t ask me again.”

  Kirby shrugged and nodded his head. He walked off toward the car.

  Denton got into the car first and she quickly took a prescription bottle out of her jacket pocket. She popped a pill into h
er mouth, swallowed it with a drink of cold coffee and then put the pill bottle away before Kirby could see it.

  Kirby got into the car a moment later and they drove toward the printing company where Brian Tate was employed. A few taps on their police vehicle’s dashboard computer brought up all of Tate’s personal information. Tate now had zero privacy, and it would remain that way until the case was solved.

  Chapter 13

  The killer reached into his pocket and took out his encrypted phone. He tapped the icon that would scramble his voice, and then called the British man who was known by the code name of “Chairman Banks.”

  Banks answered his phone on the first ring. He’d been waiting for the call from his hired gun known as “The Artist.”

  “Is it done?” Banks asked.

  “Yes, one lawyer down and two more to go,” The Artist replied, speaking with a slight Russian accent.

  “Any problems?”

  “None, it went like, how do you say… clockwork.”

  “I’m always pleased to hear about a successful performance.”

  The Artist knew that Banks enjoyed playing God and ordering men killed in much the same way you would order a pizza delivered. “That’s what you pay me for, my artistic way with weapons.”

  “Quite nice to have a cleaner working for me who demonstrates a bit of a style as he mops up the dirt and takes out the trash.”

  “You have a flair for making it sound so glamorous,” The Artist said. “What interesting thing are you eating today?”

  “How do you know I’m eating?”

  “When are you not eating? If it is any time near lunch or dinner you’ll be making the most of it. And you sound as if you might be talking with your mouth full.”

  “Now that you mention it, you do have a bad habit of interrupting my meals, don’t you? But right you are, I have been enjoying a lunch banquet of rare gastronomic delights.”

  “Why am I not surprised?”

  “A man has to eat.”

  “You eat enough for three men.”

  “And I think enough for three men too. There must be some correlation.”

  “It’s all brain food, no doubt.”

  “Correct, and besides, I have to maintain my fine figure,” Banks said, and he patted his ample stomach.

  “Yes, of course.”

  The Artist thought that Banks had a snobby well-bred manner about him. Banks always wore proper custom-tailored suits and ties from London’s Savile Row. His shoes were hand made to fit his feet and his alone. Everything regarding his appearance spoke of old money and membership in the pedigreed upper class that looked down their noses at everyone else who they believed had not benefitted from the proper breeding to be born into the elite.

  Banks was also generously proportioned around the waist with an impressive stomach that was a result of his gourmet eating habits. And he didn’t care if anyone liked it or not. In fact, he pitied the people who ate salad and sipped green smoothies to look thin and starved. “Years ago in Hawaii, the King was the most heavy-set of all people because that was a sign of wealth and leisure. The workers and laborers were all thin and muscular from doing the powerful King’s bidding. They didn’t have the same wonderfully rich foods to eat or the privilege of living a relaxed life. Those poor over-worked pawns were shaped like you actually.”

  “If they were shaped like me they must have been quite handsome.”

  “Perhaps but the poor drones still worshipped and obeyed the jumbo sized king and his very big and beautiful wife the queen.”

  The Artist thought it was interesting how the two of them enjoyed their verbal jousts, yet each man respected, feared and would never trust or turn his back on the other. Trust and death often went hand in hand. “Thanks for the fascinating history lesson but I’m still curious about what strange foods you might be dining on today.”

  “If you must know I am spending my lunch hour enjoying Aztec food delicacies.”

  “I’m not sure I’ve ever seen an Aztec restaurant in my travels.”

  “I’m south of you at the moment, in Mexico City, Mexico. It’s a fascinating metropolis despite the overpopulation and air pollution. I’m having lunch at an authentic Aztec restaurant that serves genuine pre-Columbian cuisine.”

  “That’s a long way to travel for a… chimichanga.”

  “I’m here on business so I may as well enjoy the local delicacies. This isn’t your mass marketed Mexican food smothered in melted cheese that you see in the States. The ancient Aztecs often ate various insects as a source of protein.”

  “Did you say insects?”

  “Yes, we began the meal with an appetizer of chapulines, which are grasshoppers. Next, we sampled three different dishes based on fly eggs, beetles, and cockroaches.”

  “Now I’m sorry I asked.”

  “Currently, we are devouring the specialty of the house,” Banks said, talking with his mouth full. “This prized delicacy is a soft corn taco shell filled with a variety of live insects and a sprinkle of salsa.”

  “You’re eating bugs that are still alive? You’re kidding me.”

  “No I’m not kidding. And while I was biting into my taco just now a beetle wiggled free of the tortilla, and it is crawling across my cheek. Hold the phone a moment.”

  “Ugh, I should just hang up now.”

  Banks was gone a few seconds and then came back on.

  “I’m back. A beautiful maiden plucked the beetle from my cheek and popped it into her own mouth, then fed it back to me with a kiss.”

  “Now it’s your turn to hold the phone, I’m going to throw up my breakfast.”

  “Go ahead and cough up your protein smoothie, or whatever it is you bodybuilders eat for breakfast.”

  “I had steak and eggs for breakfast so I wouldn’t be hungry while I waited for my appointment at the golf course.”

  “Speaking of your appointment, is the next one going to take place on schedule?”

  “Yes, everything is proceeding according to plan,” The Artist said. “The next target will die a bloody and painful death very soon.”

  “Good, we’ll talk again after you complete the second job in this series.”

  “I’ll call you then, and meanwhile enjoy eating your insects.”

  “Oh I will and I heard that the chef has a very special dessert planned.”

  The Artist ended the call before Banks could describe another dish.

  Banks, who routinely ordered men killed without a second thought, smiled charmingly at his attentive female dining companion, took another bite of the live insect taco, and after chewing and swallowing the squirming insects said, “Delicious!”

  Chapter 14

  Beth Cushman finished up her work at the golf course and drove across town to follow up on a lead in the case. She found the address she was looking for and then parked around the corner. The old apartment building was in need of repair. The stairs creaked, the carpet was worn thin, and the walls hadn’t seen a coat of paint in many years.

  On the second floor, the overhead light bulbs were burned out. One of the apartment doors had several bullet holes in it. She heard angry yelling from behind another door, and then the sound of a heavy object hitting a wall. Maybe she should have called for backup. As Beth walked down the hallway she put her right hand on the pistol in her holster. She found the apartment number she was looking for and she knocked on the door. Her training told her this could be an ambush, so she stood back from the door and off to one side, ready to draw her weapon at the first sign of trouble.

  The door slowly opened and a woman looked out. She had her hair in curlers, and she was drinking from a chipped coffee cup. Her breath smelled like red wine. The woman confirmed that she was the one who had called the police. She had information about the golf course murder.

  As Beth listened to the woman talk, it became obvious she was inebriated and this was a dead end in the investigation. It was common for people to claim they had seen something important i
n a criminal case. But it usually turned out to be nothing more than paranoid gossip from a nosy neighbor who had a grudge against somebody and wanted to slander them.

  “You keep your eye on that boy Curtis, he’s no good, I’ve always said so,” the woman said. “I heard him complaining that his public defender lawyer wasn’t working hard enough. Curtis was plenty mad too. I’m sure he’s the attorney assassin, right here in our building.”

  “We’ll be watching him, thank you for your time ma’am,” Beth said.

  Beth left the apartment and went down the stairs. She shook her head at the thought that a wealthy attorney like Richard Caxton would’ve done any public defender work for disadvantaged folks.

  When Beth exited the building she noticed there were now several young males loitering around the steps. The men had gang tattoos, and they looked her up and down, appraising her as a potential victim. Beth was wearing a plainclothes pants suit, and she didn’t have her police badge on her belt at the moment. Her suit jacket concealed the pistol on her hip. The low-income neighborhood was a mix of every kind of ethnic group, but Beth stood out like a sore thumb with her red hair and business suit.

  One of the men stepped forward to block her path. He deliberately bumped into her and said, “Hey Red, I bet twenty bucks that the carpet matches the drapes.”

  As he said it, he held up a twenty dollar bill, then sneered at her as if she was powerless to stop him. Beth started to reach for her police badge but she felt some pent-up anger rising to the surface and she suddenly lost her temper. She threw a vicious right hook at the man and hit him hard on the jaw. He went down like a boxer who had received a knockout punch, leaving him sprawled on the sidewalk and groaning in pain.

  Beth walked past the young man’s prone body, leaned down and plucked the twenty dollar bill from his hand and said, “You lose, genius.”

  She stuffed the twenty into her pocket, and when she did it she purposely exposed the pistol on her hip.

  The man’s friends saw Beth’s weapon, and it made them hesitate for a moment. None of them made any move to stop her from walking away.