Sinister Justice

by Steve Pickens

  Sinister Justice

  Arrow Bay: a picturesque seaside city of parks, mountain trails, incredible views…and corpses. An unidentified vigilante, unhappy with plans to alter the idyllic character of Jake Finnigan’s hometown, goes to extreme ends—in disturbingly creative and fatal ways—to express their displeasure. The citizens of the village are growing increasingly concerned and agitated, wondering who will be next and if the killer walks among them. Jake and his partner Sam O’Conner, who insist that they do not poke their noses into murder investigations, suddenly land in the middle of an increasingly complex and bizarre case, and as the body count grows, find themselves falling under suspicion.

  Sinister Justice

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  Sinister Justice

  © 2018 By Steve Pickens. All Rights Reserved.

  ISBN 13:978-1-63555-095-5

  This Electronic Book is published by

  Bold Strokes Books, Inc.

  P.O. Box 249

  Valley Falls, NY 12185

  First Edition: January 2018

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission.

  Credits

  Editor: Jerry L. Wheeler

  Production Design: Susan Ramundo

  Cover Design By Tammy Seidick

  By the Author

  Final Departure

  Sinister Justice

  Acknowledgments

  Special thanks to Jerry Wheeler for once again making the editing process easy and painless, and to all the talented folks at Bold Strokes for their hard work and help in getting Jake into print.

  Dedication

  For Ang, my beautiful friend, who is never afraid to drag me back to reality—frequently by my ear.

  And, always, for B.

  Chapter One

  Once upon a time in a quiet little village named Arrow Bay lived a handsome young man and his loving husband. They lived in a neat little house with a trim green yard filled with flowers and Japanese maples. In the front yard grew an ancient apple tree, its boughs laden with fruit turning bright red in the late September sun. In the breeze, golden leaves from two old maples drifted across the yard languidly like gilded pages from a book of fairy tales. A smart-looking beagle lay asleep in a patch of sun at the base of the tree, while the handsome man raked up the leaves. Every time he raked up the leaves, more and more drifted in from the beautiful old trees next door, so many that the handsome young man thought he’d never finish, that he’d rake and rake until the end of time, like Sisyphus pushing the large boulder up the hill for all eternity, only to have it come rolling back down. Rake and rake and rake…

  “Samuel Patrick O’Conner,” said Jake Finnigan, shaking a warning finger at his bearded husband, “If you don’t stow it right this second, you’re going to be working out here alone.” The Bigleaf maples from the Crenshaws’ house across the street showered another wave of golden leaves across their front yard.

  Sam laughed, unable to help himself. Jake stood scowling, his blue flannel shirt tied across his waist, the sun glistening off his biceps.

  Sam found himself thinking how good Jake looked in his work boots, faded jeans and a white T-shirt that clung to his muscular torso. He knew the two hours a day Jake spent working out with weights and exercise equipment were not out of vanity, but out of his desire to eat junk food and fight off the “fat kid” stigma he’d suffered all through his childhood.

  “Just for that, kiddo, you’re on the hook for dinner tonight,” said Jake. He tossed his rake aside in disgust. “Oh, this is hopeless. Until the wind shifts back to the west, I’m not even going to bother.”

  “We’re lucky, actually.” Sam dropped a small gardening shovel into the loop of his work pants while peering over the chain link fence next door. The yellow house had red shutters with hearts cut into them, and a concrete walkway leading to the front door flanked by ceramic figurines of the Seven Dwarfs. Strewn about the creeping myrtle were Bambi, Thumper, Flower, and some frog that neither Sam nor Jake had ever been able to pin to any Disney film. Currently the entire yard was almost totally obscured by a healthy layer of elephant-ear sized maple leaves the color of butterscotch.

  “Brother,” said Jake, shaking his head. “Poor Al and Phyllis. They’re going to catch hell for that.”

  “Isn’t much old lady Weinberg can do about the leaves. Those trees are on the town’s heritage list. They’re well over two hundred years old.” Sam buttoned up his blue flannel shirt against the chill.

  “I know. I love those old trees. Except for the three weeks a year when they shed their leaves.” Jake walked over to the apple tree, patting Barnaby, the couple’s beagle, on the head. Ella Fitzgerald began singing “It’s De-Lovely” from the radio they had propped up against the tree.

  “Well,” said Sam, returning to the flowerbed he’d just planted. “That’s that for now. We’ll have plenty of ‘Blushing Bride’ tulips come spring.”

  Sam glanced around the front yard, with its tidy flowerbeds on either side of the walk and the boxes full of late fall flowers on the porch.

  “I know what you’re going to say,” said Jake, retrieving his rake.

  “We’ve got to do something with that backyard,” replied Sam.

  “At least we got rid of that damn boxwood.”

  “True, but that blackthorn behind the garage is going wild, and you know—”

  The sound of a black ’99 Lincoln Town Car pulling into the driveway next door cut him off. The garage door screeched as it opened, making both Sam and Jake grimace. The Lincoln jerked forward into the garage. The engine gunned twice, spewing a cloud of black exhaust. With a final rumble it cut off. A moment later, the car door opened, then slammed shut. The sound of heels on concrete echoed from the garage. An angular woman with a monochrome pineapple of steel-gray hair popped out of the doorframe. She paused, ogling her yard with beady eyes before letting out a short grunt, the cuff of her gray tweed coat flapping about her ankles. Leona Weinberg turned her hatchet face from her yard, looked briefly at their house then across the street where the maples shed another wheelbarrow full of leaves across her property.

  Jake and Sam immediately went back to their yard work, pretending not to have noticed the arrival of their neighbor. Leona stomped around her yard, kicking leaves and cursing under her breath. “Son of a mongrel dog, no good heathens, mealy mouthed, caca, dang blamed inconsiderate no good so-and-so’s.”

  Barnaby woke from his slumber and started barking. Sam stood up and shouted, “Quiet, Barnaby, sit!” The dog responded at once and sat back down on his patch of earth under the elderly Red Delicious apple tree. It was not, however, quick enough for Mrs. Weinberg.

  “You keep that dog quiet, Mr. O’Conner or I’ll have the law on you!” she shrieked from across the chain link fence.

  Jake threw down his rake. “Listen, you—”

  Sam kicked Jake in the shin.

  “Ow! What the hell did you do that for?”

  “We’ll keep him quiet, Mrs. Weinberg.” Sam was grinning, perhaps the worst, most plastic grin he’d ever seen in his life. Jake burst out laughing.

  “I don’t see what is so funny, Mr. Finnigan. And would you
please turn that devil music down!” she barked, just as Sarah Vaughan came on singing “Poor Butterfly.”

  “Devil music?” said Jake, irritated. “That’s Sarah Vaughan!”

  “I know who it is. And I know what station it is coming from. Turn it down, or—”

  “You’ll have the law on us. Yes, yes, I know,” said Jake, going back to his raking.

  “Jake…” Just then, Phyllis Crenshaw pulled her white Dodge into her drive, parked, and got out, waving at Sam and Jake as she retrieved the mail from her box. A gentle, generous woman of about forty-five, Phyllis had short-cropped blonde hair framing a heart-shaped face with dimples. She wore silver-rimmed glasses over sparkling blue eyes. Phyllis Crenshaw had a hearty laugh and was thoughtful and intelligent, with a wonderful sense of humor. She worked for the ferry system, which was where Jake had met her, and the two had become quite chummy.

  “Afternoon, fellows!” she called. “Beautiful day, isn’t it?”

  “It is,” said Jake. “How’s life on B watch?”

  “Going well. Julie Crawford is out, she had her baby—”

  “Mrs. Crenshaw,” interrupted Leona Weinberg. “What are you going to do about these leaves?”

  “Which leaves, Mrs. Weinberg?”

  “The leaves your filthy trees dumped all over my yard. What are you going to do about them?”

  “Do? Well, nothing. God seems to have wanted them there or he wouldn’t have had the wind blow that way,” she said, winking at Jake and Sam. Sam had to bite the inside of his cheeks to keep from laughing.

  “You have a lot of gall bringing up God when you attend that heathen church in town.”

  “And you have a lot of gall bringing up leaves to me when you have a gardening service attend to your yard. You should give them a call. Good day to you, Leona,” said Phyllis. She got back in her car, waving to Sam and Jake, and drove up the rest of the length of her driveway.

  “Well, I never!” cried Leona Weinberg.

  “And you never will, either,” said Jake under his breath. This time Sam wasn’t able to contain his laughter and instead erupted into a coughing fit.

  Leona Weinberg stared at them with her beady pig eyes and whirled away, stomping up the walkway to her front door and assaulting it with her keys before throwing it open and disappearing into the depths of her house.

  Another gust of wind blew in from the southeast, showering High Street with a shower of golden leaves. Sam and Jake laughed until their sides hurt.

  Chapter Two

  After spending that afternoon working in the yard, neither Jake nor Sam felt like cooking. As the sun slipped lower on the horizon, they showered and dressed, then jumped into Jake’s electric blue PT Cruiser and headed down to the Bitter End Bar and Grill.

  The Bitter End, named after the nautical term for the free end of a rope or chain on a vessel, was the type of place locals flocked to loyally but until recently tourists hadn’t discovered. The ones who did their homework stumbled on to something the locals of Arrow Bay had known for decades: the Bitter End served the best food and drinks in town. Aside from basic burgers and French fries, the Bitter End served an abundance of fresh fish, salmon, mussels, and local seafoods along with fresh pies made with locally picked berries, homemade ice cream and cakes, fresh baked bread and doughnuts. Word of mouth usually kept the place almost always packed to capacity from the moment the doors opened until closing time.

  That Wednesday evening, however, the restaurant was only at about half capacity. Jake and Sam sat at their favorite table just to the left of the end of the bar. Jake ordered a Jameson and Pepsi and Sam a Green River soda. They greeted their friend, the Bitter End’s best bartender, Caleb Rivers, with a hearty hello. A barrel-chested man about thirty with arresting opalescent blue eyes, short goatee, and cropped brown hair, Caleb also had nicely defined biceps and pectoral muscles under a black Bitter End T-shirt that neither Jake nor Sam had ever seen him without. Of medium height and graced with a bashful, engaging smile and personality, Caleb had legendary bartending skills. He knew the most obscure drinks, and Sam and Jake’s repeated efforts to stump him had led to them both downing some fairly toxic concoctions.

  Caleb was straight but not the least bit narrow-minded. Over the years, a casual acquaintance had become a very strong friendship, Jake and Sam offering sage advice and sympathy concerning Caleb’s never-ending series of short-lived relationships with a profusion of women.

  He brought their drinks over and sat down at the table with them. “Evenin’, guys. What brings you out on a Wednesday?”

  “The fundamental inability to come up with anything interesting for dinner,” replied Jake, taking a sip of his drink. “Excellent as always.”

  “Thanks. It’s so difficult to mix whiskey and cola together.”

  “I could have said you were skimping on the Jameson but decided to be polite.”

  “That’s because you feared being smited for lying.”

  “That’s smote,” Sam corrected him.

  “Okay, smote. And I wouldn’t be so cocky for someone who’s in check.”

  “What?” Sam exclaimed, alarmed. He turned to the chessboard that sat at the corner of the bar. Caleb and Sam had a game going at all times, sometimes lasting for months. Sam hopped off the chair and went over to the chess set, pushing his glasses up his nose while scowling down at the board.

  “Pretty quiet tonight,” Jake said.

  “Town council meeting. Wait until about nine thirty when everyone comes in for a drink after that bunch of cut-throats is finished.”

  Jake rolled his eyes. “God, now what?”

  “Wilde Park. Longhoffer is determined to plow the sucker under.”

  Jake looked aghast. “What for?”

  “Oh, just what Arrow Bay needs. A big name box store cluttering up the waterfront.”

  “Can they even do that? I mean, Wilde Park is right up against a residential neighborhood, not to mention the channel!”

  “It’s zoned commercial at that end,” said Sam, returning from the chessboard. “Longhoffer does have some precedent. There are a few small businesses strewn into the old homes in that part of town.” Sam fixed Jake with a steely eye. “You’d know all this if you read the Arrow Bay Examiner.”

  “Or listened to KABW,” Caleb said. “Randy Burrows is always going on about it. He’s on the council, you know.”

  “I know, I voted for him, and I do listen to KABW,” said Jake, thinking about how they’d ended up with a council as a governing body in the first place.

  Twenty years prior, Mayor Alderbrook absconded with the town treasury and fled to Brazil. In a backlash, the citizens of Arrow Bay voted to dissolve the office of mayor in favor of a six-person city council, figuring that not everyone could have their fingers in the pie all at one time. Jake wasn’t sure that move had been successful with the conservatives on the council, whom he and many others suspected of conspiring together to supplant their agenda on the town. Reed Longhoffer, Verna Monger, and their neighbor Leona Weinberg didn’t have their collective digits in some scheme to steal city funds, but they did seem bent on trying to make Arrow Bay as stuffily conservative and uptight as they were.

  Until recently, they had been able to bowl over the liberals on the council, but notoriously wishy-washy Jerome Beaverton had dropped a small anvil on his foot at work and had been forced to move to a drier climate when arthritis set in. In his stead, Emma Kennedy, owner of the Illahee Inn and a staunch liberal, had been elected, causing a three-three deadlock more and more over the last several months. That very deadlock and the seemingly glacial pace at which things moved in Arrow Bay had caused Jake to quit paying much attention to any of the issues that had faced the town in the last two years. And after the problems he’d faced last fall…

  He took another drink of his Jameson and Pepsi and decided on fish and chips for dinner while Sam opted for the roast beef pepper dip.

  “I wish you wouldn’t put it quite like that,” said Jak
e.

  “Hmm?” Sam said, taking his eyes off the large flat-screen TV.

  “You know, about the paper.”

  Sam shrugged. “It’s true. We get it dumped on the porch once a week, and you never even take it out of the wrapper.”

  “The crossword sucks,” said Jake.

  “You really should, though. I mean, not much goes on in Arrow Bay, but when things like this Wilde Park mess arise, you’ll be on top of things, and I won’t inadvertently embarrass you in front of the bartender at the Bitter End,” said Sam, grinning slyly.

  Jake chose to ignore the last part. “Well, all right, I’ll start reading it. Meanwhile, what is the scoop with the park?”

  “Basically what Caleb said. Longhoffer wants to plow the park under and put up a SuperLoMart on the spot. Or so the rumor goes.”

  “Well, on the one hand it would be nice to have something like that.”

  Sam looked as if Jake had doused him with cold water. “You, a union man, are saying you’d like to have a SuperLoMart in town?”

  “My point is,” continued Jake, “and keep your voice down, Sam. You can’t even buy a bloody pair of socks in this town. You have to go clear to Mount Burlington to get anything like that. And no, I don’t support either destroying Wilde Park or shopping at SuperLoMart. A nice union store like Inabinett’s Market would be great, tastefully done and stuck, say, on that vacant land near Safeway. Not Wilde Park.”

  “I have very fond memories of that park. Feeding the ducks in the pond, taking Barnaby for walks, listening to you cursing a blue streak after you slipped and fell in the creek.”

  “Har har, a laugh riot that was.” Jake stuck his tongue out at his husband. “Still, you know, it is a beautiful little oasis in town. You’ve got the marsh land which is full of ducks and birds, the creek, that nice stretch of beach…”