The Thriller Collection

by S W Vaughn

  Burgman’s brow went up. “Uh-huh,” he said slowly. “You know this guy murdered nine kids, don’t you?”

  “We’re aware of the details of the case, yes.”

  “And you still want to talk to the guy.”

  Jude nodded. “Yessir, we believe everyone has the right to a fair trial and fair sentencing,” he said. “We are simply opponents of cruel and unusual punishment.”

  “So you’re saying his trial wasn’t fair?”

  Interesting. He’d struck a nerve with that, but the only sign was a brief flicker in Burgman’s eyes. “Well, sir, I wouldn’t know that yet,” he said. “We’ve only just begun our investigation.”

  “Huh. Sorry to disappoint you, but I don’t believe you’re gonna find one single shred of a reason to give this guy an easier sentence.” The computer beeped again, and Burgman gave an overly bright smile. “You’re all set, Mr. Kavanaugh,” he said. “Go on through.”

  “Thanks very much, sir.”

  Burgman buzzed him through, and another guard escorted him to a solitary visiting room with a table and two chairs. There was a ring bolt set into one side of the table. He placed the briefcase he’d brought at the other end, took a seat and passed the time wondering about fires and property values and Ronnie Quinton — the smiling billboard face. Mayor and real estate developer.

  He must’ve gotten those east side properties pretty cheap after the fire. Especially since the neighborhood was going downhill fast, with those thugs driving everyone out. All those empty houses — the sale prices would’ve plunged around there.

  And a real estate developer could make a fortune buying everything up and turning things around.

  When they brought Martin Lunn inside, it was with full restraints. Wrist and ankle cuffs, waist chain, the works. He didn’t resist when the guards brought him to the other chair and fastened him to the ring bolt in the table. And he didn’t speak until the guards left the room.

  “They say you’re a lawyer.” Lunn was average height, average build, scruffy and bloodshot and bleary — as if that insanely high blood alcohol content he’d been arrested with had left him permanently drunk ever since. “What do you want with me, lawyer?”

  “Yes, sir, I am a lawyer. Sam Kavanaugh, with Project Justice.”

  “Yeah, and what’s that?”

  “Well, we try to look into any case with unusually harsh sentencing,” Jude said, repeating the patter he’d delivered to the guard. “Often it’s death row cases, but in your situation we believe the punishment outweighs the crime.”

  Lunn laughed. It was a harsh, bitter sound, heavy with defeat. “You know what I done?” he said. “What they say I done, anyway. Can’t remember a damned thing. But I guess I must’ve done it, right? They had evidence and shit.”

  “I’d like to talk about that, if you don’t mind.” Jude opened his briefcase and removed the folder he’d put together at the hotel. The top sheet was a printout of the photos from Elliot Duran and Tyrone Hale’s licenses, pulled from DMV records courtesy of his new private investigator credentials. “Do you know these men?” he said as he turned the paper around and slid it across the table.

  Lunn leaned forward slowly. “Yeah, that’s the sons of bitches said I did it. Lobo and T-Man,” he said. “They were at the bar, too, before I … went to see Sammie. Tryin’ to make me buy drinks and shit for ’em, like we friends or something. I tell you, though, I never got mixed in with the Squad.”

  “The Squad?” Jude repeated.

  “Lobo’s gang. Bunch of street trash.” Lunn shook his head. “Listen, I ain’t the best man. I know that. I done things I’m not proud of,” he said. “Yeah, me and Sammie got into it that night. She wouldn’t let me see my boy, since I just got out of the slam. Called me a bad influence. But I loved my old lady, you hear me? I would never…” He broke off with a choked sound. “They say I killed her. That I killed a bunch of kids.”

  “Are you saying you didn’t?”

  “I don’t fuckin’ know!” He pounded the table with both hands, but the rage left as fast as it came. “I think about it all the damned time,” he said. “That’s all you can do in here. It’s what they want you to do, to think yourself crazy ’til you’re dangerous like they say you are. So they can justify lockin’ you up.” His jaw tightened. “Thinking don’t make me remember, though. All I know is I wouldn’t, not ever. But I did.”

  Jude pulled the printout back and tucked it into the folder, trying to process all this. He really didn’t like the idea that Duran and Hale, otherwise known as Lobo and T-Man, had been hanging around Lunn before the fire. But he had no idea what it could mean.

  Just one more thing to unravel in this mess.

  “Well, Mr. Lunn, thank you for your time,” he finally said as he replaced the folder in the briefcase and stood. “I believe I have enough to continue looking into your case. You’ll hear from me again soon.”

  Lunn watched him with dulled eyes. “Maybe you shouldn’t,” he said. “If I done this, killed all those people … hell, I deserve to be in here. They should just shoot me and have done with it.” His shoulders slumped. “But I guess then I wouldn’t suffer. I gotta live with it now.”

  He couldn’t bring himself to offer any more encouragement. Whatever happened in the end, Martin Lunn would torment himself with this for the rest of his life. He was a broken man.

  And Jude had to find out what was going on here, before it could destroy anyone else.

  Chapter 10

  Jude was two blocks from the motel in Providence Forge when red and blue flashers lit up his rear view mirror. He hadn’t been speeding — at least, not for the last five miles or so — and there was nothing wrong with his car.

  This small-town harassment was getting old, fast.

  He slowed and passed the motel before he pulled over. The cruiser nosed in behind him, and he watched the side mirror expecting a long wait before there was any movement. The smaller the town, the more time the cop liked to waste. If this was Sheriff Singer, he didn’t plan to play nice this time.

  But the driver’s side door opened immediately, and the figure who emerged wasn’t the sheriff. It was familiar, though.

  He wasn’t completely sure until Deputy Theodore ‘Teddy’ Armstrong tapped on his window.

  Jude hit the power button, and the window hummed down. He didn’t say anything. Better to wait until the deputy handed him whatever bullshit excuse he’d decided to harass him with — Armstrong had been the least friendly, most aggressive party involved in last night’s altercation, even more so than Dylan McCabe.

  Outside the window, the deputy’s hand rested on his holstered gun. He leaned down to glance inside, and then straightened again. “Step out of the car, please,” he said.

  That was probably the worst thing he could’ve said. Whatever this was about, it wasn’t going to end in a harassment ticket. And the last thing Jude wanted was a fight with a local cop. If he resisted, Armstrong would arrest him and Danica’s word wouldn’t be enough to get him out. He’d spend at least a day in a cell, maybe longer. That was too much time to lose.

  And if he didn’t resist — well, Armstrong wasn’t here to shake his hand and congratulate him on lumping up McCabe and company. He absolutely didn’t want to kill a police officer in self-defense.

  Jude put both hands on the wheel in plain sight, to show he wasn’t reaching for a weapon. “Is there a problem here?” he said calmly.

  “Step out of the car,” the deputy repeated in the same flat tone.

  “I don’t think I’m going to do that.”

  There was a flash of movement, and the waist view of the man outside the car was replaced by the black muzzle of a Glock. “I think you are,” Armstrong said. “Get out.”

  “All right,” Jude said slowly, reaching for the door handle. His own gun was in the glove box — he’d taken it off when he went into the prison. No way to get to it now. The deputy stepped back slightly as he popped the door, pushed it open and s
tood with his hands raised. “Deputy Armstrong, isn’t it?” he said.

  Armstrong kicked the door closed, keeping the gun trained on him. “Care to tell me where you’re headed, Wyland?”

  “Down to the Food Lion.” He hadn’t told anyone but Danica where he was staying, and at this point it seemed like a good idea to keep it that way. Not that anyone with half a brain couldn’t figure it out — the available lodgings in Providence Forge were extremely limited. “What’s this about, Deputy?”

  The man shook his head. “I hear you’re poking around that fire we had up in Victory Falls a while back,” he said. “That where you’re coming from, the city?”

  Jude watched the hand with the gun carefully, ready to move if the deputy showed the slightest sign of pulling the trigger. “My father’s up there,” he said. “Not that it’s any of your business.”

  “You’re making it my business.” Armstrong’s eyes flashed dark. “Sheriff said you got yourself a P.I. license. So what, you think that means you can screw with my collar? I know you looked at the reports.”

  Jude managed to relax a fraction. This was starting to smell like a pissing contest. If he let Armstrong get his bluff and swagger out of the way, the deputy would probably drop it and he could move on. “Look, the fire is just a starting point,” he said, deciding to use the same line he’d fed the sheriff. “I’m trying to help a friend. She thinks there’s something wrong with her aunt, and I’m going to show here there isn’t.”

  “You mean Danica Murray.”

  He nodded. “Sherry Price isn’t missing, obviously,” he said. “Danica just needs a little help realizing that.”

  “Huh.” Armstrong cocked his head, shrugged and holstered his weapon. “You know, maybe we got off on the wrong foot,” he said, extending a hand. “What do you say we start over? I mean, we’re on the same side and all.”

  Jude sighed inwardly. Everything in Armstrong’s body language said he had no intention of making nice. He’d probably put the gun away because his intention had been to deliver the message with his fists all along.

  Don’t hit him back. He’s a cop.

  With that reluctant personal admonishment, he took the hand.

  Armstrong immediately jerked him forward and rammed a fist into his gut. The blow drove the breath from him. He dropped to the pavement, and the deputy punched his jaw hard enough to bounce his head off the side of the car.

  He waited, tasting blood and burning through every ounce of willpower he had to keep from fighting back.

  “I think we understand each other now,” Armstrong said. “You want to keep trying to bang Danica, or whatever the hell you’re after with her, that’s fine. Bang away.” He reached down, hauled him up by the shirt and delivered another cannon blow to the gut. “But keep digging into that fire and it’s gonna be a hell of a lot worse when I come to arrest you, and you refuse to cooperate. You feel me?”

  “Yeah,” he rasped. “I got it.”

  Armstrong sneered and slammed him bodily against the car. That seemed to be a favorite move of his. “Have a good day now, Mr. Wyland,” he said, letting go with a rough shove. “Oh, and don’t worry. I’ll let the sheriff know your little investigation is over.”

  Jude took a moment to catch his breath and watched Armstrong walk back to the squad car. That wasn’t just your typical, jurisdictional dick-swinging. The deputy was hiding something, and he’d bet good money it was about Lunn’s arrest. Something had gone wrong there. He’d already known things were off. The reports stated Armstrong had arrived first and alone, without his partner, and had the suspect in cuffs and outside when Deputy Mike got to the scene.

  Now Armstrong was trying too hard to cover his tracks.

  The deputy wouldn’t leave until Jude did, so he climbed carefully back into his car and started the engine. He’d drive to the Food Lion where he said he was going, maybe grab a fresh six-pack and make sure he wasn’t being followed before he doubled back to the motel. He was more determined than ever to find the bottom of this thing.

  Being threatened really pissed him off.

  Chapter 11

  The knock at the motel door came just before eight. He’d called Danica half an hour ago and told her not to come, that he’d catch her later and explain things.

  He should’ve known she wouldn’t listen.

  Jude got up from the bed, where he’d been looking into Teddy Armstrong and not finding much, crossed the room and opened the door. “Which part of ‘don’t come here’ did you miss?” he said.

  Danica’s irritated expression melted into concern. “Oh my God. What happened to your face?”

  He sighed and stood back. “Come in.”

  When she stepped through the entrance, he closed the door and engaged the privacy lock, then headed for the mini-fridge. “Want a beer?” he called over his shoulder. “Or a bottle of water? Guess I have those, too.”

  “Er. I think I’m going to need a beer.”

  “I think you’re right.” He twisted two loose from the plastic rings, walked back and handed her a can. “You should probably sit down,” he said.

  “Yeah, probably. Thanks.”

  He pulled the chair out from beneath the desk. She took a seat, and he settled on the foot of the closest bed and popped his beer. “Whatever’s going on here, I think it started with the fire at Magnolia Estates.”

  She gave a slow blink. “Jesus. I never even … that happened a few days before Aunt Sherry left for that class.”

  “Yeah. She was the first investigator on it, and her report claimed the cause of the fire was ‘inconclusive’,” he said. “Does that sound like something she’d say?”

  “Not even close.” Danica took an unsteady breath and cracked her can open. “You’d better tell me what you found out.”

  He told her most of it. About the sheriff, his brief meeting with Version Two Sherry, the visit with Lunn, and the not-so-friendly warning to stop. He left out the trip to the east side and the encounter with the Squad. She’d been asking plenty of questions herself, and he didn’t want her trying to interrogate a street gang.

  He finished the story and the beer at the same time, and got up for another one. She gave him a strange look when he sat back down. “What?” he said. “You ready for a refill? Thought you were still working on that.”

  “I’m so sorry, Jude.” She set her half-finished can on the desk and clasped her hands together. “I mean, you have people beating you up over this. It’s insane. I never should’ve asked you to help me.”

  He couldn’t help laughing. “This is nothing,” he said. “Listen, I was a Marine for four years, and then a spy. Worked a lot of war zones. I can handle a couple of punches from a piss-ant backwater deputy.”

  “Okay, maybe you can.” She didn’t seem as amused as he was. “But what if it gets worse than a few punches? I can’t ask you to keep doing this.”

  He leaned forward. “You don’t have to. I’m doing it anyway.”

  “But—”

  “But nothing,” he said. “You’re actually kind of doing me a favor here.”

  She raised an eyebrow. “Getting you beat up is doing you a favor?”

  “Well, maybe not that part,” he said with a smirk. “Thing is, I resigned six months ago and I haven’t done anything since. I mean nothing. Except this.” He raised the beer can, shrugged and drank. “Which is good, don’t get me wrong. I’m all for drinking. But I used to take down bad guys, help make the world better … at least, I tried to.” He wouldn’t get into all the bullshit politics and procedural red tape that tended to mire down the CIA and cripple the effectiveness of its field agents. “You gave me another chance.”

  “To what?”

  “Take down the bad guys.”

  Danica stared at him another minute, and then flashed a hesitant smile. “You’re really a private investigator now?” she said. “Like, as of today?”

  “Yep. It’s official,” he said. “Sheriff Singer didn’t seem too impressed
with that.”

  “He wouldn’t be.” She shook her head, let out a long breath. “Thank you,” she said. “It means a lot, just knowing you believe me. No one else would.”

  “Think I passed belief a while ago. I know damned well there’s something rotten here,” he said. “And I’m going to find out what.”

  She nodded. “So what should we do now?”

  “Honestly, we shouldn’t do anything,” he said. “But I guess me telling you to stay out of it’d work about as well as telling a bear not to shit in the woods.”

  “Damn right. You’re stuck with me.”

  “What a surprise.” He lifted his beer in a half-salute. “In that case, we should go to Victory Falls and have a word with the fire department investigator about why his reports never got filed.”

  She grinned. “Count me in.”

  Chapter 12

  Jude had gone back to the DMV database for Malcolm Gardner’s home address, figuring the fire investigator wouldn’t be at work this time of night. When they pulled up to the place in a residential neighborhood on Victory Falls’ west side, there was a black pickup in the driveway and lights on inside.

  He parked at the curb and killed the engine. “Any chance you know this guy, even a little?” he said to Danica.

  “Well, he goes to the elementary school every year for fire truck day,” she said. “Remember?”

  He almost laughed. “I’m lucky I remember high school,” he said, tapping his temple with a finger. “There’s nothing up here before double digits. But I’ll take your word for it.”

  “Wait. You don’t remember your childhood?”

  “Sure I do. Just not every single day of it.” He actually had vividly clear memories of childhood. But they started when he was twelve, when Amy was born. He’d absolutely loved being a big brother. Jeremy had too — a lot more with Amy than Jude, but the two of them had been close, as brothers went.