Justice for Hire

by Rayven T. Hill

  Charles Robinson appeared to be the catalyst in all of the corporation’s undertakings. Annie wondered how the bidding would go now that he was dead.

  Her thoughts were interrupted by a crash from the living room. She rolled her eyes and shook her head. The guys had broken something else.

  “Can’t you boys take that outside,” she shouted.

  “Sorry, honey,” she heard back.

  “Sorry, Mom.”

  She pushed back from her chair and wandered into the living room. Jake was examining a leg of the coffee table, which appeared to have been the latest victim of their carousing. He looked at her sheepishly. “No problem. I can fix it.”

  “That’s the second time you broke that table,” Annie said.

  “Yeah, and maybe not the last.” Jake raised his arm and examined his bruised elbow. “Better to have a broken table than a broken arm.”

  “You’re not as tough as you look, big guy,” Matty said.

  Jake glared at him. “I’ll get you next time.”

  Annie laughed, dropped into the couch and tucked her legs underneath her. She was pleased she could laugh off the incident. It was only a table, but she had struggled a lot with her inclination to be like her mother who ruled her house with a sharp voice, demanding everyone adhere to her stringent demands.

  Matty strolled from the room as Jake plunked into the armchair. “Did you find out anything about Bonfield?” he asked.

  Annie nodded. “Quite a bit. They’re a pretty large company . . .” She was interrupted by the doorbell ringing.

  “That’ll be Hank,” Jake said, as he rose to his feet.

  Matty charged from the kitchen, got to the front door first and swung it open. “Hey, Uncle Hank. Come on in.”

  Hank messed up Matty’s hair the way he always did. “Hey, Matty.”

  Jake appeared in the foyer. “We’re in the living room.”

  Hank followed Jake into the room, sat on the couch, leaned back and relaxed, while Jake returned to the armchair. Matty plopped in between Hank and his mother.

  “We dropped by the precinct today and talked to Cheryl,” Jake said.

  “Did you get anything interesting from her?” Hank asked.

  Jake shrugged. “Not really. She claims she doesn’t remember anything.”

  “That’s basically all I got too.”

  “She seems believable,” Annie said.

  “But she’s still a killer,” Hank said. “There’s no way around that. The thing that escapes me is motive. I couldn’t find any connection between Robinson or Bonfield, to either Cheryl or her parents.”

  “I find it hard to believe she could be a hired killer. That seems pretty ridiculous. She’s not the type,” Jake said.

  “Most killers don’t seem like killers on the surface,” Hank said.

  “Who benefits?” Annie asked. “Does Cheryl benefit from Robinson’s death at all? If not, who does?”

  “Follow the money,” Jake said. “It’s almost always love or money.”

  Matty listened intently, his head twisting back and forth as he followed the conversation. In the past, Annie had tried to shield him from any discussions they had regarding murder or crime, but Matty has recently straightened them out with his understanding of what some people do to others. Annie had relented and allowed him to listen in unless things got too gruesome.

  “There’s certainly lots of money in this case,” Annie said. “I did some research into Bonfield Development. They’re a multi-billion dollar company.”

  “And I have my guys checking a little deeper into Robinson’s background, as well as his wife’s. I talked to her. She’s distraught, of course, but if there were any affairs going on, we need to find that out.”

  “According to her receptionist,” Annie said. “They were a lovely couple, and she was adamant neither one of them would have an affair.”

  “If that’s the case,” Jake put in, “then it’s the money. Again, who benefits?”

  “Hank flipped a notepad from his inner pocket and consulted it. “Besides his wife, he has a son, Richard. He’s on the board of directors at Bonfield. We’re checking into him, as well as all of the other board members, but he’s not a priority suspect.”

  “Sheridan Construction,” Annie said.

  Hank glanced over at her. “Who?”

  “Sheridan Construction. They’re Bonfield’s chief competitors in a bidding going on for a prime piece of land downtown. They would certainly benefit by his death.”

  Hank thought a moment. “It’s a possibility,” he said. “But big land deals go on all the time, and people don’t usually get killed over it.”

  “Just a thought,” Annie said.

  Matty seemed to be getting bored with the conversation. He slid off the couch, left the room and disappeared down the hallway toward the kitchen. Annie heard the back door slap shut as he went out to the backyard.

  Hank spoke, “I’m going to push the crown to ask the judge for a mental health hearing. If the prosecuting attorney is convinced Cheryl is unable to proceed because she has a serious mental issue, he must bring this to the court’s attention. I expect the judge will order a competency examination be conducted and appoint a psychiatrist or psychologist to conduct it.”

  “At least that should give us a diagnosis of her mental condition,” Annie said.

  “And whether or not she’s faking it,” Jake added. “But she’s still a murderer.”

  “Yes, she is,” Hank said. “But we want to find out why. I’ve questioned a lot of suspects in the last twenty years, and I have a pretty good idea if someone’s lying or not. And my gut tells me Cheryl is seriously confused.”

  “So you hope a psychiatrist can get something out of her you can’t?” Annie asked.

  “Exactly. I don’t expect she’ll be found incompetent to stand trial. That’s not the issue with me. I want to get at the truth.”

  “Yeah, so do we,” Jake said. “We’re just not sure what our next move is.”

  “We’ll see what tomorrow brings,” Annie said. “Today was a pretty eventful day.”

  Hank looked at his watch. “I have to get going in a minute. Amelia’s expecting me by eight o’clock or so.”

  “Another big date?” Jake asked.

  Hank grinned. “Something like that.”

  Amelia was the mother of a victim in a recent case Hank had worked on with the Lincolns. Everything had turned out well, and she and Hank had hit it off after that.

  Hank continued, “We thought we might check out that new place, Tommy Marino’s. I hear the food is pretty good there.”

  “How are Amelia and Jenny?” Annie asked.

  “They’re both doing great,” Hank said. “And still putting up with me.”

  “That’s a miracle,” Jake said, and then looked over toward Annie. “You still didn’t get that pistol you were talking about.”

  “We’ve been pretty busy. I didn’t have time to look into it.”

  “Yeah, we have been.”

  “Maybe tomorrow,” she said.

  “Yeah, maybe.”

  “You’re buying a gun?” Hank asked.

  “I thought I might get a small one. For protection.”

  “Do you realize Canadian law doesn’t allow private investigators, even licensed ones, to carry a pistol?”

  Annie’s mouth dropped open a moment. “I didn’t know that.”

  “Yeah, you can own one, if you pass a test, and then get the proper license, but you can’t carry it, except to and from a firing range. And even then, there’s a whole lot of rules about what you have to carry it in.”

  “So what good is owning one?” Jake asked.

  “Not much good. Just for sport.”

  “So much for that idea,” Annie said.

  “Why didn’t you know this before?” Hank asked.

  Annie shrugged. “I’ve never thought about it. We’re still pretty new at this investigating thing. Originally, it was all research and backgroun
d checks. Nothing dangerous. I never thought I would need one, but lately we’ve been running into a whole lot of bad guys.”

  Jake added, “And bad guys don’t care about a license to carry a gun. If they’re caught, carrying a concealed weapon is the least of their worries.”

  Hank laughed. “You’re allowed to carry handcuffs and a baton, if that makes you feel any better.”

  “Not much protection from a guy with a gun, is it?” Annie said. “Hey you, put that gun down and hold still there, fella, while I hit you with my baton, and then handcuff you.”

  Jake chuckled and held up his massive fists. “It’s a good thing I have these.”

  Chapter 9

  Monday, August 22nd, 8:03 PM

  OLIVER CRAIG’s months of preparation and planning had resulted in a situation less than ideal. Sure, the outcome had been as planned, but the girl was a loose end that wasn’t supposed to exist.

  He leaned forward in his chair, picked up the telephone and dialed a number from memory.

  “Yes?”

  “Wolff, it’s Craig.”

  “Yes, Mr. Craig.”

  “You messed up,” Craig said. “What happened? The girl survived.”

  “I don’t know how that happened, sir. We thought we had her fully prepared. All the tests were positive, and there was no indication whatsoever there may be a complication.”

  Craig thought a moment before speaking. “We don’t have the resources to deal with her. Will she be a problem?”

  “I don’t believe so.”

  Craig thought he heard apprehension in the voice. He sat back and took a deep breath. “Is the boy ready?” he asked.

  “I believe so, sir.”

  Craig wrinkled his brow. “You don’t sound so sure.”

  The voice on the phone hesitated. “He’s ready, sir.”

  “Wolff, I know you’re the best there is. I have complete faith in your abilities, but we can’t afford the next operation to go wrong. Do you hear me?”

  “Yes, sir. The boy has been thoroughly tested, and we’re satisfied he’s ready.” Silence on the phone, and then, “The girl had a strong will. It was evident at first, however we were convinced it had been overcome.” More silence. “It seems we were mistaken.”

  “That’d better be the only slip-up. Are we on schedule for tomorrow?”

  “We’re all ready to go,” Wolff said, and then paused and asked, “How’s your father?”

  “Not so good. He won’t last much longer.”

  “He was a genius, and I learned a lot from him,” Wolff said. “But that was a long time ago, before the operation was disassembled and he pursued other things.”

  “And now I’ve given you a chance to resume your research. We’ll all benefit from this.”

  Wolff hesitated. “I appreciate the opportunity, it’s just that . . . well, it’s important research, but . . .”

  Craig raised his voice slightly and said, “We’ve been over this before. I’ve given you an opportunity you never would have otherwise. Don’t go soft on me now.”

  “I’m not going soft, it’s just my original research, many years ago, was for the ultimate benefit of mankind. Not for personal gain.”

  “What’s the difference?” Craig asked. “The people we use are the dregs of society, the outcasts, and the deadbeats. And they are benefitting us, and we’re making the world a better place. Your father would’ve approved, and your grandfather.”

  “Yes, they would have. They were faithful to the cause, and I’m not questioning my involvement. I’m in this all the way,” Wolff said. “And tomorrow will be a success.”

  “I’m counting on it,” Craig said. “And, I’m counting on you.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Craig leaned forward and thoughtfully replaced the telephone receiver. He knew he could depend on Wolff. Even through his intermittent pangs of conscience, Wolff was committed to him because of his father. At least he had that much to thank the old man for.

  Tuesday, August 23rd, 3:25 AM

  THE SCREAM OF heavy metal music blasted in Cheryl Waters’ head. Her own screams couldn’t drown out the sound of the noise, as she lay frozen, finding it hard to breathe, couldn’t think, couldn’t see anything but total darkness in her cell.

  Suddenly the sound stopped and her body was jolted with excruciating pain. An electrical shock so intense, and then again, over and over. Then, the torture stopped, and she lay still in the darkness, trying to catch her breath, struggling to sit upright, but the straps that bound her arms and legs held her firmly.

  An intense light was switched on and she heard the sound of the door to her cell opening, and then footsteps drawing closer. She turned her head and watched as the man came toward her. She waited quietly as he undid the straps.

  “Sit up,” he said.

  Cheryl struggled to sit, drawing her legs up. She wrapped her arms around her knees and stared quietly at her tormentor.

  “I am the Wizard,” he said.

  The Wizard disappeared. The room was quiet now, and she lay on her back. A light was on, and she heard a banging. She sat upright and turned to see a police officer, tapping on the bars of her cell with his baton.

  “Are you all right?” he asked.

  Cheryl stared at the officer a moment, trying to clear her head. Her body shivered uncontrollably. Her voice shook and she finally managed to say, “Just . . . just a dream.”

  The officer frowned as he observed her. “It must have been a pretty bad dream. You were screaming.”

  Cheryl nodded, “It . . . it was.”

  The cop watched her a moment, and then turned and walked away. She heard the corridor door slam shut, leaving her alone again with memories of the nightmare in her head. It had been so real. The face of the man who called himself the Wizard was familiar to her in some vague way, and the pain she’d felt still seemed to fill her body as though the nightmare had actually occurred.

  She lay on the metal cot in a fetal position, her knees drawn up, afraid to sleep, shivering with fear in the warm room. Finally, drained and overcome with exhaustion, she fell asleep.

  Chapter 10

  Tuesday, August 23rd, 9:04 AM

  BOBBY SULLIVAN could barely make ends meet. The gas bar, where he pumped gas for impatient customers, was about the best job an ex-con like him could hope to find. And he was lucky enough to have this job only because the guy who owned the place had been a friend of his father. That was a long time ago, when his parents were still alive.

  Orphaned ten years ago, and fifteen at the time, he was fortunate his widowed aunt had taken him in. In hindsight, he was grateful to her, and grateful even after his stretch in prison, she’d welcomed him back. In fact, she’d stuck with him throughout his ordeal, and the only one who came to visit him. Not often. It was a long trip to Kingston from Richmond Hill, but her few visits, and her letters, had helped him get through his five years of incarceration.

  Bobby finished cleaning the windshield of a sedan and dropped the squeegee into the bucket of cleaning solution. Walking around to the driver’s open window, he leaned over.

  “That’ll be fifty dollars, sir.”

  The man handed him a hundred. Bobby ran to the booth and returned a moment later with the change, handing it back. Without a word from the occupant of the vehicle, the car sped away. Bobby watched as it turned onto the street and melded into the morning traffic.

  He took a seat on the curb by the gas pump and waited for the next customer. It may not be the best job in the world, but at least it’s not hard work.

  At times, he had accepted his lot in life. This was one of those occasions, and he slipped off his cap, leaned back against the pump and turned his face toward the morning sun, enjoying the warmth.

  At other times, however, he was angry at the way things had gone. Society called him a rapist. He knew he wasn’t. He’d been seventeen at the time, and she was sixteen. They were in love, and had been seeing each other for several months before fin
ally succumbing to temptation. They’d made the mistake of consummating their relationship in her father’s house. In her bedroom. And when her parents came home and caught them, it was all over for him.

  Gone were his dreams of being a star baseball player. He’d been touted as the next big hope, a golden boy, probably destined for the big leagues. The world soon forgot about him after his conviction.

  Her father was rich, and he wasn’t. His pathetic defense hadn’t stood much chance, and so he was locked away.

  He never saw her again after that, and he never heard from her while he was in prison. He still thought about her, of course, but by the time he was released, she was married and had moved away with her new husband. Somewhere down east, he’d heard.

  Bobby stood and watched as another car wheeled into the station. It was a brand new SRT Viper. He admired its sleek red lines with a bit of envy as it pulled to a stop at the pump. He didn’t figure he ever had a chance of owning anything like that. Not with this dead-end job.

  He plopped his cap back on, went to the driver’s side window and leaned down. The window zipped open and the guy inside turned his head. “Fill ‘er up, and watch the paint.” The guy tried to talk tough, but his high-pitched voice and his geeky appearance belied his attempt to be cool. He looked more like a rich snot spending Daddy’s money.

  Bobby was careful of the paint as he poked the nozzle into the filler. What he really wanted to do was put a scratch on the guy’s car for being such a jerk, but out of respect for the beautiful machine, he didn’t.

  “I’m looking for Bobby Sullivan.”

  Bobby spun his head as he heard the voice. A young guy was approaching, his hands tucked into the pockets of his jacket. “Are you Bobby Sullivan?”

  Bobby nodded. “Yup. That’s me,” he said, and then his jaw dropped as he saw the boy remove his right hand from his pocket, his fist wrapped around a pistol.

  The hose fell from the tank, spilling gas down the side of the shiny red vehicle. The nozzle clattered on the concrete, splashing fuel at Bobby’s feet as he ducked.