Justice Returns: A Private Investigator Mystery Series (A Jake & Annie Lincoln Thriller Book 6)

by Rayven T. Hill

  “Doesn’t matter, Moe,” Jeremy whispered in a hoarse voice. “I love you like you were my brother.”

  Moe’s grin turned to a wide smile.

  It was almost quiet in the cell for a few minutes. Outside the small room, the occasional cell door clanged. A ding at the other end of the block cried for his mother, but nobody cared. The overhead light hummed. Moe sniffed a time or two—probably catching a cold.

  “I’m going to miss you, Moe,” Jeremy said at last. “I’m surely going to miss you.”

  Moe sat forward. “I expect I’ll be back afore long.” He waved a hand across the cell. “This is my life it seems. I’ll be back here soon enough. Ain’t nobody gonna hire me seein’s I can’t read or write or nothin’ them business people need.”

  Jeremy observed his friend a moment. He felt sorry for the big lug who never had much chance in the world. Finally, he said, “Moe?”

  “Yup.”

  “I’m getting out of here soon and I’ll take care of you. Neither one of us will come back to this place.”

  Moe leaned forward. “Little Buddy, you’re in here for life. Ain’t nothing gonna change that.”

  “I have a plan,” Jeremy said.

  Moe whistled. “A plan?”

  “Yes, I surely do.”

  A wrinkle took over Moe’s brow and his eyes all but disappeared. “You think it’ll work?”

  “I’m pretty sure. I think it’s fate. Just how I came here and met you. I’m pretty sure fate did that.”

  Moe’s eyes tightened a moment, then, “You might have something there with that fate stuff.”

  “We’ll see,” Jeremy said. “We’ll surely see.”

  “If you get out of here, we can take care of each other,” Moe said, and touched his forefinger to his temple. “You got the brains.” He flexed a huge bicep. “And I got this.”

  Jeremy chuckled. “We’ll work it out.” He held up a finger. “Whatever you do, Moe, keep yourself from coming back here again. And make sure you don’t steal from anybody. That’s probably the worst thing—taking other people’s stuff. And don’t let anyone use you, Moe. Promise me that.”

  “I promise,” Moe said, holding up his hand. “I expect I’ll listen to you from now on ‘cause you won’t steer me the wrong way.”

  “You can count on that, Moe. You surely can.”

  Moe grinned foolishly for a moment, and then rolled off the cot. “Well, I best get dressed. They’re coming to take me out soon.”

  Jeremy watched as Moe took off his orange jumpsuit and dressed in the street clothes the law was nice enough to provide. The pants hung four inches too short, and he couldn’t do up the top two buttons of his shirt.

  Moe finished dressing, stood straight, and grinned. “How I look?”

  Jeremy looked up at the huge man towering above him and smiled. “You look fine, Moe. Just fine.”

  Moe laughed and looked at himself in the tiny mirror above the sink. “They don’t fit so well, but leastways, it’s better than wearing orange all day.”

  “Moe?”

  Moe turned to Jeremy. “Yup?”

  “How am I going to find you—once I get out of here?”

  Moe dug a finger in his ear. “Ain’t never thought of that.” He frowned and rubbed his big, round, bald head. “There’s a guy I know might be able to get me a job. Not sure though. His name’s Uriah Hubert and he’s in Richmond Hill. If you look him up, even if I’m not at his place, he should know where I’m at. I’m gonna go see him first.”

  “Open up six,” came from outside the cell.

  Jeremy’s heart jumped. Six was their cell number.

  The barred door hummed back, clanged, and a hack appeared in the doorway. “Let’s go Thacker. You’re going home.”

  Jeremy sprang off the bunk. Moe leaned down and wrapped his big arms around his friend, almost lifting him off his feet. When he let him go, Moe held Jeremy at arm’s length, still leaned over. “I talked to my friends. You’ll be ok in here.”

  “Come on, Thacker. Move it.”

  Moe turned to the guard. “I’m ready,” he said, and lumbered from the cell.

  Jeremy couldn’t speak as the door hummed again, slid closed, and snapped in place. He clung to the bars of the cell and watched as the guard led Moe through a metal door and out of sight.

  He returned to his bunk and lay down. He hadn’t totally perfected his plan yet, but it had to work—for his sake, and for Moe’s.

  Chapter 4

  Tuesday, 8:30 AM

  JAKE FINISHED with the bench press, racked the weights, and wiped off with a towel. He’d spent the last half hour in the basement doing a workout routine he rarely missed. He always felt better after, ready to face anything.

  After a quick shower, he dressed and went into the office off the living room where Annie sat at her iMac. She looked up as he entered, gave him a wide smile, and said, “I’ve got enough here to keep me busy most of the day. Lots of research to do.”

  Jake dropped into the guest chair and stretched out his long legs. “Have anything for me?”

  Annie spun in her chair. “Maybe. If you want to take this one on.” She leafed through a stack of papers, removed a handwritten sheet, and studied it. “A man called yesterday afternoon and I completely forgot about it until now. His car has been stolen and he wants our help to recover it.”

  Jake frowned. “A stolen car? That doesn’t really sound like our thing.”

  “It’s not just any car,” Annie said, as she smiled and handed the paper to Jake.

  Jake glanced at the paper and whistled. “A ‘69 Cuda. Sweet car.”

  “And the guy’s heartbroken,” Annie said. “I thought he was going to break down on the phone.”

  “What about insurance?” Jake asked, scanning the sheet.

  “It’s all there. He has comprehensive coverage, so it’s insured against theft, but he wants the car back.”

  “I don’t blame him,” Jake said. “What about the police?”

  “The car was stolen more than a week ago. He contacted the police immediately, but as you know, it’s pretty hard to track down a stolen car, and so far, the police haven’t turned up anything.”

  Jake set the paper on the desk and looked at Annie. “And he wants us to find it. Sounds like an impossible task.”

  “I can tell him we’re not interested.”

  “Hmm. Not yet. Let me see what I can come up with. I’ll give him a call first.”

  “I’ll leave it with you,” Annie said, and turned back to her computer.

  Jake picked up the paper, stood, and went into the living room. He scanned the sheet for a name and phone number, and then pulled out his iPhone and dialed.

  “Hello?”

  “Is this Whitney Culpepper?”

  “Yes.”

  Jake introduced himself. “Can I drop over and see you?”

  The man sounded excited. “Thanks for getting back to me so quickly. I’m at the shop, and you can drop by any time.”

  Whitney and his wife owned a florist shop in the heart of the suburbs. Jake got the address and promised to drop by immediately.

  He hung up and poked his head inside the office. “I’m going to see this guy. Not sure what I can do, but I’ll talk to him anyway. It’s not far away.”

  “Good luck,” Annie said without looking his way. Her fingers continued to fly over the keyboard. Jake watched her a moment, wondering how anyone could possibly type so fast when the letters on the keyboard weren’t even in any logical order.

  He grabbed his keys, went through the kitchen to the garage, and climbed into the Firebird. He hit the fob for the garage door, started the engine, and listened to its delightful rumble. He knew how Culpepper must be feeling. His own 1986 Pontiac Firebird was his pride, and losing it would be devastating.

  He made the trip to the shop in ten minutes, pulled into the strip plaza, and stopped in front of Culpepper Flowers.

  When he entered the shop, he was greeted by a
vast array of plants, gift baskets, bouquets, and coolers stuffed with roses, carnations, and lilies. Myriad scents mingled together and filled the air with a unique perfume.

  A woman sat behind the counter—probably Culpepper’s wife. She looked up as he entered. He approached the desk, handed her his card, and introduced himself.

  She glanced at the card, and then turned her head and called, “Whit?”

  A man appeared in the doorway of a room that led into the back of the shop. He took the offered business card, glanced at it, and motioned for Jake to follow him into the back room. He led the way, and swung a chair around for his guest.

  Jake shook hands with Culpepper, a middle-aged man with a massive shock of dark hair. He wore a pleasant, but sad smile. “You can call me Whit,” he said.

  “How’d you hear about us, Whit?” Jake asked.

  “A friend recommended you. Said you guys were making quite a name for yourself lately.”

  “Ah, word of mouth. The best advertising.”

  The florist motioned toward the chair. “I didn’t know where else to turn. I don’t think the police are going to be able to help me. They didn’t give me a lot of hope.”

  They sat and Jake glanced around the room. There were even more flowers back here than in front. It appeared Whit was working on a funeral arrangement. Floral wreaths and stuffed vases lined a table a little further back.

  Whit leaned forward. “I hope you can help me,” he said. “I’ve had that car for more than twenty years. Keep it in top shape. It means a lot to me. It’s not even about the insurance money. I want the car back.”

  Jake explained to Whit how he could relate, his own car meaning more to him than just any car. “Where was the Cuda when it was stolen?” Jake asked.

  “It was a week ago last Sunday. My wife and I were at Richmond Park enjoying the day and the weather. When we returned to the car … it was gone. I don’t drive it often. I usually keep it in the garage.”

  “Somebody couldn’t resist.”

  Whit shook his head. “It may be more than a sudden urge. I belong to the Richmond Classic Car Club and know a lot of the guys. A good friend of mine had his car stolen two weeks ago, and one of the other members, a week or so before that. Mine is the third muscle car taken this month, all in the same area.”

  Jake thought about that a moment, and then asked, “Do you have any photos of your car?”

  Whit grinned. “Of course. Some people take pictures of their kids. I take pictures of my car.”

  Jake laughed. “Yeah, I have a few shots of mine.”

  Whit pointed to the wall above his desk. An eight by ten photo of a magnificent machine was proudly displayed.

  “She sure is beautiful,” Jake said as he stood and gazed at the sleek, black Barracuda. “They don’t make them like this anymore.”

  Whit pulled out the pins holding the photo and removed it from the wall. “Take it with you if it’ll help.”

  Jake took the picture and looked at it a moment, and then back at the hopeful man. “It may not be all that easy to find. If it was targeted, it may’ve gone to a private collector.”

  Jake watched the hope drain from Whit’s face. The man truly was heartbroken.

  “I’ll do what I can to find it,” Jake said. “I can’t promise anything, but I’ll give it my best shot.”

  Chapter 5

  Tuesday, 9:44 AM

  JEREMY SPENCER eased from his cell, fearful to wander into the day room without the protective hand of Moe. Other than Hindle, who was taken care of for now, the rest of the prisoners had known enough to leave him alone when Moe was around. But now?

  He stood outside his cell on the upper level, his eyes roving over the rows of cubicles on either side of him. Across the day room were more—the lower tiers, even more—an endless mass of imprisoned men, some full of hope, most filled with despair at their mundane existence.

  This was the same place Father was dumped fifteen years earlier. Jeremy was only ten at the time, and could barely remember the circumstances of Father’s conviction, but Mother had given him the details later.

  Father accosted a thief in their home late one night and ended up shooting the young burglar, killing him. A public defender representing the poor farmer convinced him to plea on a lesser charge of manslaughter and agree to a ten-year sentence. And so he was locked up in this very place.

  Five years later the family received stunning news—Quinton Spencer, Jeremy’s father, killed in his cell in this godforsaken place. There were no witnesses, and no suspects. Jeremy was devastated. Mother took it hard of course, and though she was heartbroken, they managed to get by.

  And then Mother hung herself—or so the police determined, but Jeremy was positive there was another reason for her death. He was sure his mother, Annette Spencer, was murdered; fully convinced she would never end her own life.

  At seventeen years of age he was all alone. Both sets of grandparents were long gone, and the last person he had in the world had left him. He was unable to maintain the farm, and other than a vegetable garden he kept in the summer months, the farm lay wasted. Any jobs he could find barely paid the taxes.

  All this because a thief invaded their home. A filthy burglar who deserved what he got. Many times Jeremy lay in bed, fantasizing—the thief was still alive, begging for his life, and Jeremy slit his throat, or gouged out his heart, or smothered him to death, over, and over, and over…

  And now with Moe leaving, and he soon to get out of here himself, his life was about to change. For better or worse, he didn’t know, but something had to be done.

  There are two types of prisoners. There are those who are willing to use violence for any reason. These are the newer, younger prisoners with a chip on their shoulder, looking down on the rest, bitter, angry, and lacking in respect. Then there are the old school convicts. Old schoolers give more respect to fellow prisoners and try to get by each day with a live and let live attitude.

  Liam O’Connor was one of the old schoolers. He’d been here most of his life, never caused any problems, and even the most violent of prisoners left him alone. Many said he controlled the prison with even the guards giving him some measure of respect—respect he had earned.

  Jeremy turned his attention to O’Connor’s usual spot. During tier time he always sat along the far wall with two or three other old-timers. He was there now, his hands clasped together and resting on the table in front of him.

  Prisoners looked Jeremy’s way, some sneering, others watching, as he took the steps down to the day room. Nobody spoke to him. He walked cautiously over to O’Connor’s table.

  The old Irishman looked up curiously as Jeremy approached. The other two who sat opposite O’Connor paid him no attention.

  “Mind if I sit here a moment?” Jeremy asked.

  O’Connor wrinkled his brow, his eyes burrowing into Jeremy’s. Finally, he barely moved his head in a nod and waved a finger toward an empty spot on the bench.

  Jeremy watched as O’Connor rolled a cigarette, lit it, and inhaled the smoke deeply. Then his eyes turned to Jeremy. “What’s on your mind, lad?” His voice was gravelly, without expression, but not unkind, and he still spoke with an Irish accent after all these years.

  Jeremy looked down at his hands as he twisted them nervously. Finally, he looked at the Irishman and his voice came out, barely above a whisper. “I want to find out about my father.”

  O’Connor’s eyes bored into his. “You’re Spencer?”

  Jeremy nodded, not surprised the lifer knew his name. He probably made it his business to be in the know.

  “And who’s your father?”

  “His name was Quinton. Quinton Spencer. He was in here fifteen years ago. Murdered inside ten years ago.”

  O’Connor took a long breath and gazed across the room, his eyes narrowing in thought. “I remember him,” he said at last, looking back at Jeremy. “What is it you want to know about him?”

  “I want to know who killed him.”


  The old prisoner unclasped his hands and straightened his back, observing Jeremy closely. Finally, he looked at his companions, and nodded for them to leave.

  When the others were gone, Jeremy slid down the bench until he was opposite O’Connor and waited eagerly.

  The elderly criminal leaned forward. “No good can come of digging into the past, lad.”

  “I need to know, sir.”

  A hint of a smile appeared on O’Connor’s face. “Call me Conny. Nobody gets the name, sir, in here. Not me, and especially, not the hacks.”

  Jeremy nodded. “Can you tell me who killed him, Conny?”

  Conny shook his head. “I can’t tell you who, only why.”

  Jeremy leaned in. “Why? Why was he killed?”

  “You may not like to hear the truth.”

  “I need the truth.”

  Conny took a deep breath and stroked his mustache. Finally, he sighed lightly and said, “Your father was a snitch.”

  Jeremy leaned back and frowned, raising his voice. “My father was no snitch.”

  Conny’s face showed disapproval at Jeremy’s outburst. He pointed a finger. “I get that’s not what you want to hear, but don’t raise your voice to me.”

  Jeremy was silent, twiddling with his fingers, his head lowered. Finally, he said, “Sorry, Conny. I’m not actually yelling at you. It’s upsetting news. My father was a good man, honorable, and if he was a snitch, then there’s more to the story. There’s a good reason.”

  Conny took a breath and continued, “I knew your father a little bit. He didn’t belong here. He was a greener when he came in and stayed that way. Didn’t fit in.” He shrugged. “He certainly wasn’t a hardened criminal, and he didn’t learn the ways—the code.”

  Jeremy raised his head. “Father was innocent. He killed a boy in self-defense, is all.”

  “May be true. It happens.”

  “But you don’t know who killed him?”

  Conny shook his head. “Back then, I didn’t know everything that went on.” He took a deep breath. “There was a throwdown. Your father tried to interfere and ended up in the infirmary himself. He was in bad shape. The hacks got to him I guess, and he snitched. The other two guys got the hole and, so the story goes, when they came out, one of them did your father with a shiv and vowed he would kill every member of his family when he got out of here.”