Danger-Close: A Jake Thunder Adventure (The Jake Thunder Adventures Book 1)

by Jon F. Merz

  "I wouldn’t dream of asking you to kill. I have resources other than you for that." She spun on what looked like handmade Italian heels and walked to the office door. "Good day."

  I watched her leave the office, then leaned back in my chair thinking about everything we talked about. But mostly, I thought about how incredibly gorgeous she was.

  Chapter Two

  The logical place to start was at Boston Police headquarters. Cleveland Circle fell on the Newton/Boston line, but I was willing to bet that Newton, as the smaller town, would have yielded to BPD and its bigger machinations.

  My route to headquarters consisted of rolling first down Seaverns Avenue to the Green Street subway station, and hopping on the elevator to take me down to the platform itself. The ride was only about ten minutes on the Orange Line to Roxbury Crossing and from there it was just a matter of rolling on over.

  I sighed watching cars fly past me on Tremont Street. Lately, I’ve been really missing the thrill of driving. I’ve totally missed out on knowing what road rage is all about.

  BPD headquarters used to sit over on Berkeley Street in an old gray stone building etched with character. Nowadays it was an ugly steel and mirrored facade with a sign directly ripped off from Scotland Yard. Glass bricks that used to be all the rage in California formed the foundation. I wondered if anyone in the planning department had figured out that a well-placed car bomb would shred most of the inhabitants inside if it was located near those same glass bricks.

  I guessed not. I figured out a long time ago that not everyone thinks like I do. Imagine that.

  I rolled past the lobby post under the eyes of a bored desk sergeant three hundred pounds and two dozen donuts out of shape. He didn't notice me.

  One of the rules of escape and evasion I’d once learned in the Air Force but had only come to appreciate since my accident was that people never ever look down. If it isn't within a certain field of view, they won't notice it.

  They never look up either; but since I’m not real good on stilts, I haven’t had a chance to see if that one’s true.

  With my private investigator’s license clipped to my shirt backwards, most of the people who looked at me only wanted to get out of my way. I headed for the elevator bank and pushed the fourth floor.

  When the doors parted again, I rolled myself out and steered down the hallway, coming to stop at the homicide division. I opened the door and got myself inside with a minimum of banging against the door jamb.

  I met Frank McCloskey a thousand summers ago when he was an up-and-coming beat cop and I was fresh out of the service with two useless legs and a bunch of medals someone thought I deserved pinned to my chest. I helped him take down two thugs robbing a liquor store one night and we’d been fast friends ever since. McCloskey was the kind of guy you always want to have in your corner: honest but not above bending the rules if it’s important to do so.

  He looked up as I came in. "Jesus H. Christ."

  "Anybody ever tell you not to take the Lord’s name in vain?"

  "Millions of times. I’m hopeless."

  "I coulda told you that."

  "Funny guy. Should I ask how you got past the check-in downstairs?"

  "Probably not."

  "I will anyway."

  "You see the sergeant they have manning that desk?"

  "Yeah."

  "Still need to ask?"

  "Guess not." He flipped through a stack of paperwork on his desk. "What brings you down here, Thunder? I’m kinda busy."

  "You guys pulled a woman out of the Cleveland Circle reservoir on Monday, yeah?"

  He nodded. "Named Patterson, yeah. So what?"

  "How deep are you looking into the case?"

  "What we heard about her?" He shook his head like a sheepdog just out of a lake. "Not very."

  "What’d you hear?"

  "Drunk. Drugs. Bit of a whore." He frowned. "She got on the wrong side of some dealer most likely. She ended up dead. Same old story, different name."

  "Maybe not."

  "What’s it to you?"

  "Her sister hired me to find the killers."

  "Plural?"

  "She thinks so."

  "What about you?"

  "Don’t know yet. That’s why I came to visit you."

  He swiveled his chair, pushed his way over to a computer keyboard and punched in a few keys. "Not much to have a look at. Got the initial report here, an autopsy rundown, toxicology that kind of thing."

  "What’d the ME say?"

  "Two entrance wounds. Slugs were 9mm. In the skull. Blew the better half of her head away. Didn’t sound like she had much gray matter anyway."

  "You get the slugs?"

  "Amazingly, we got one of them. Lodged into a piece of her skull. The other bullet probably bounced somewhere into the water. And no, I'm not going to put divers in the water over there looking for it, so don't even ask."

  "You run the round past the State Police ballistics boys?"

  McCloskey sighed. "Shit, Thunder, you serious? Do you really think we’ve got that kind of time?"

  "How much time does it take to do your job?"

  "Helluva lot more than I got to spend talking to your ass." He pointed to a stack of files. "See them? We had a banner week. Got three homicides that are definitely gang-related. Youths. Fourteen and sixteen years old. Then we got some seventy-year old Vietnamese convenience store worker gunned down during a robbery that’s got the whole community riding the Mayor. So he rides us for results. And you want me to spend some time on what looks like a relatively straight forward case? Give me a break. I haven’t seen the business side of my wife in weeks."

  "No wonder you’re so cranky."

  He sighed. "Thunder…"

  "I’ll take that as a no then on the slug."

  McCloskey groaned. "Lemme guess, you want me to have them run it down?"

  "Gee, would ya?"

  "Oh sure, what the hell." He made a few notes. "Anything else I can get for you? Maybe a lobster dinner and a fine Chablis?"

  "Who’d you scare up for character witnesses?"

  "Few friends, her sister Ð who, I might add – was anything but cooperative."

  "But a helluva good looking woman."

  "True. But I’m happily married, I don’t notice those things anymore."

  "’Course you don’t. And I’m the next Pope." I pointed at the computer. "Can I get a printout of that report?"

  "You know I can’t let you have official police documents. If someone found out, my ass wouldn’t last any longer than a euro model out at Walpole."

  "Yeah, that’d be a real shame." I wheeled myself over to his desk. "So, can I have that printout?"

  He sighed again. "You’re a pushy bastard, you know that?"

  "Someone might have mentioned it once."

  "Only once?" McCloskey laughed. "I woulda thought it’d be monogrammed on your shirts and bathrobe by now."

  "Give me some time."

  He ripped a few sheets out of the laser printer and slid them over to me. "Better shred ‘em when you’re done with ‘em otherwise you’ll have to cultivate a new fool here in headquarters who’ll help your sorry ass every time you need something."

  "Frank, does it look like I have time to cultivate new fools? Besides, why get a new one when the old one still works like a charm?"

  McCloskey sighed. "You owe me."

  "You’ll run the slug?"

  "Yeah."

  "Friday," I said. "I’m buying."

  "’Bout time you picked up a tab."

  "Name the place."

  "Guilfoil’s, where else?"

  I grinned. "Not some place in the city? I’m surprised."

  McCloskey flipped me the bird. "My tab’s bigger at Guilfoil’s. You can grab that, too."

  I slid the report into the side of my chair and wheeled myself to the door. "Friday."

  "Hey, Thunder."

  I turned partway around. "Yeah?"

  "That Patterson case. If it turns
out to be something, you let me know about it would you?"

  I pointed to the stack of files on his desk. "I wouldn’t want to burden you, pal."

  "Just remember who wears the shield, okay?"

  Now it was my turn to flip him the bird.

  Getting outside took even less time than getting in. I simply rolled out the way I came in, still under the nose of the bored desk sergeant who by now had buried his nose in the newspaper crossword puzzle.

  Good luck to him.

  Outside of police headquarters, I took a moment to read through the report. It didn’t contain much else than what McCloskey had already told me. He’d been true to his word when he said they hadn’t dug into her background much.

  Melinda Patterson’s vitals made her sound like a pretty attractive catch. The autopsy photos didn’t do much for her Ð they never do Ð and given half her skull had been blown off, I couldn't see much of a family resemblance.

  Vanessa still outpaced her in my opinion. But then again, Vanessa was still alive so it wasn’t all that fair a comparison.

  The ME’s blood toxicology workup noted a fairly elevated blood alcohol content along with trace amounts of THC. So, she’d had a few tokes. That might have made her a bit horny. And that might mean she left with someone that night on the pretense of sleeping with him.

  I was interested in the ballistics report on the slug they’d recovered. I was pretty surprised they found it at all. She must have died at Cleveland Circle and then been disposed of in the same fell swoop.

  Someone obviously wasn’t trying very hard to conceal the killing. Usually most folks get off’d somewhere else and then dumped across town to throw off the boys in blue.

  But Melinda Patterson’s killer or killers hadn’t given a damn. Or they’d been so confident that they wouldn’t be caught they just got it over and done with quickly.

  Either way, the theory didn’t cheer me much.

  The ballistics rundown would possibly give me an angle on the gun used. That could go a long way toward identifying what kind of folks she’d run afoul of. Hopefully. If my luck was bad, the slug would have come from a Beretta or a Glock, one of the guns you can find on any street corner in America.

  But if my luck was good…

  I didn’t have time to waste waiting for McCloskey’s pals at the State Police ballistics unit down at 1010 Massachusetts Avenue to come through with the goods. I was on the clock and still one helluva long way from impressing Vanessa Patterson much.

  I checked my watch and saw that the hours had ticked by pretty fast since Vanessa had graced my office with her presence. Nighttime was just around the corner and it was time to check out the first name on the witness list McCloskey had given me. Coincidentally enough, it was the same guy Vanessa had told me about:

  Don Woolery.

  Have I mentioned yet how I don’t really believe in coincidences?

  Chapter Three

  Joey’s bar sat in what aspired to be the upscale section of Newbury Street, somewhere between the understated blue blood wealth of the Ritz-Carlton Hotel end down by Arlington Street and the gaudy nouveau riche of European college kids up by Sonsie. Joey’s sat in the middle, luring young and old alike who didn’t fit in at either end but desperately wanted to belong to both.

  I got there by six; the place was already crowded. If you’ve ever thought about how tough it is trying to walk into a bar by yourself and start a conversation with someone, try it sometime when you’re sitting in a wheelchair.

  Nowadays, most people are accustomed to seeing us on the street, but bars, by and large, aren’t really conducive to people in chairs. That fact alone had garnered Joey’s more than a few enemies over the years.

  Personally, I wasn’t all that happy at having to wade through buzzed, giggling, snorting faux sincere lonely-hearts. But a buck’s a buck and Vanessa’s buck was as good a reason to make myself uncomfortable as any.

  McCloskey’s report contained snapshots of the witnesses they’d spoken to. Don Woolery was among them.

  And Don Woolery was among the drinking crowd at Joey’s this night.

  Tall. Easily over six feet. But lean at maybe one-eighty. His brown hair was brushed back off his forehead and short on the sides. His eyebrows looked sculpted; I thought he looked the type to take in a waxing every few weeks.

  Trying to get someone’s attention in a crowded noisy bar is tough enough when you’re at roughly the same height as your target. For me, it’s a bit tougher. But I perfected a technique some time ago that enables me to get anyone’s attention any time I want.

  I bump into them with my chair.

  Metal poking into the back of your leg hurts.

  And it’s not something that you can easily brush aside and ignore. Even when you’ve been drinking.

  Don grunted as I banged into him.

  But it was only after I’d done it again that he thought to look down and see me for the first time. His eyebrows arched and then he stooped.

  "What can I do for you?"

  "You can order me a beer and then get us a table. We need to talk."

  He eyed me for another second. "What about?"

  I flipped open my credentials and showed him. "It’s about Melinda."

  He peered closer at my license. "Thunder? What the hell kind of name is that? You for real with that thing?"

  "I’m one half Sioux Indian. The name is real enough."

  He frowned. "So what? You’re not a cop. I don’t have to talk to you."

  "’Course you don’t. But it might look pretty funny unless you do. You wouldn't believe the kind of scene I can cause with this contraption."

  He looked at me again and then sighed. "Why not?"

  We made our way over to the back booth where a knot of former fraternity boys cleared out as Don approached. He settled himself across from me, took a long drag on his beer and watched me sip mine.

  "So?"

  "So, you wanna tell me about the other night?"

  "What other night?"

  "Don, don't start this conversation off on the wrong foot. I already know you're one of the guys the police spoke to about Melinda's death."

  "Well, what’s to tell? Cops have already asked all the questions. You should check with them."

  "Maybe I already have. Maybe I want to hear your version of the events."

  He belched and followed it up with another healthy swig. "There ain't all that much to tell. She was plastered before I even got started."

  "She drink?"

  "A lot."

  "What’s a lot?"

  "What it sounds like."

  I leaned across the table. "Pretend I’m new to the country. Explain a lot to me, would you?"

  "Blistering drunk as often as she could manage it."

  "What’d she drink?"

  "Captain’s and coke. A lot of it." He grinned. "She couldn’t have put more away if she’d had gills."

  "Colorful. You a poet or what?"

  "Nah, I’m not into that creative shit."

  "Who’d she leave with that night?"

  "Not me."

  "She leave with you often?"

  "Not always. Sometimes."

  "Monthly?"

  "Maybe. Maybe more. Sometimes she hooked up with my brother."

  "A family affair. How thrilling."

  "Chick was so lonely I probably could have talked her into banging my old man."

  "Ever the good son, huh?"

  "Old man's dead, though," he said.

  "So, Melinda was a convenient lay."

  He nodded. "I was lucky to meet her."

  "Maybe she was lucky, too, huh?"

  "Not the other night."

  "No." I took another sip. "You haven’t answered my question."

  "I’m outa beer."

  I motioned a waitress over and asked for a refill. I turned back to him. "Talk to me."

  "Some dude. Never seen him before."

  "Young?"

  "Kinda. Her age. My age."
<
br />   "Seem okay?"

  He laughed. "Well, shit, there wasn’t a sign around his neck that said ‘lunatic’ or anything like that."

  "You mention this to the cops?"

  "Cops never asked that question."

  "You could have volunteered it."

  "Why bother? She wasn’t worth the effort."

  "Everyone else around here think that way, too?"

  "Who the hell knows?"

  "She ever mean anything to you?"

  "She meant an easy lay. Downside was she smoked a lot. Made her stink down south, but otherwise she was a great fuck. Swallowed. Back door – she liked that. Some bondage on occasion. Had this fetish for being spanked hard. Played dress-up once or twice. Cheerleader, that kind of crap."

  "She ever hook?"

  "Why? You looking for some?"

  "Don’t get stupid."

  His eyebrows arched again as if he wasn’t used to being spoken to like that by a guy in a chair. That was fine with me. I’m really into busting up other people’s fantasy worlds with a hefty dose of my own unique brand of reality.

  "I don’t know if she hooked. Maybe. But she never seemed to have much money."

  "What about drugs?"

  "Pot. Liked the MJ."

  "Any blow?"

  "Never saw her walking around with a greenback up her snout, but who knows? Maybe she did."

  I finished my beer as the waitress returned with Don's refill. "The guy she left with – you see him here before?"

  "I’m not usually looking at guys in here."

  "Usually?"

  "Never. I’m into chicks."

  "You never saw him here before then."

  "Guess not."

  "Anything else you want to tell me?"

  "Have I told you anything yet?"

  "Not much."

  He nodded. "Guess we’re through then." He hefted his glass and stood up. "Thanks for the beer."

  I watched him thread his way back to the bar where he elbowed a smaller guy out of a stool and slid onto it instead. My observation was interrupted by a fresh voice.

  "You need anything else?"

  I looked up and saw the waitress standing over me. She smiled but not in a sympathetic way. Her interest seemed genuine enough. I appreciated that.

  "I’ll take the bill."

  She nodded, made some final calculations, and then handed me the slip of paper. I folded a twenty into the crease she’d made and handed it back.