Hard Job

by Jeffery Craig

  Hard Job

  Reightman & Bailey Book Two

  Jeffery Craig

  This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either the product of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to individuals living or dead is entirely coincidental and the product of the author’s imagination.

  Cover design by LaLima Design

  Cover images ©Artophoto|Dreamstime & ©Giuseppe Parisi|Dreamstime

  Author Photo by Clayton P. King

  HARD JOB: Copyright © 2016 by Jeffery Craig Schwalk. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electron or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or digital reproduction or by any information, storage or retrieval system or process without the direct written permission from the author. For further information, please contact the author at Jeffery Craig, 2903 River Dr., Columbia, SC 29201

  ISBN – 13: 978-1530593897

  ISBN – 10: 1530593891

  Books By Jeffery Craig

  Done Rubbed Out: Reightman & Bailey Book One

  Hard Job: Reightman & Bailey Book Two

  Skin Puppet: Reightman & Bailey Book Three*

  Little Deaths: Reightman & Bailey Book Four*

  *Forthcoming

  To those who read the early version, and to CPK, always.

  A New Day

  John Brown didn’t sleep much after he made it home from the botched hit on Toby Bailey. He cleaned his gun and sat down in his favorite chair and just thought things over. “It all got too complicated, too fast,” he told himself. He’d known it was risky, and he’d hated taking unnecessary risks. He didn’t like it when there were too many pieces in play, and right now there were more than he thought wise. Last night unfolded very differently than he’d planned, and a simple drive-by murder had gone to hell because of it. He wished they’d just called it off and waited for another opportunity. John Brown wondered if he’d even hit the man he was supposed to take out. He got his answer when the phone in front of him buzzed.

  U KILLED A COP

  He stared down at the phone as he digested the words. He wasn’t sure what to say. It was unfortunate, but the screw up wasn’t his fault. If his employer had listened to him, none of this would have happened. He was inclined to just ignore the message, but knew there’d be a high price to pay down the line if he did. He thought it over some more, and decided he could at least respond.

  SORRY, he eventually typed, adding a sad, frowny face after the word. When he didn’t receive a response, he typed a question:

  THE MARK?

  He waited.

  ALIVE

  Now John Brown was worried he wasn’t going to collect his pay, and that wouldn’t do at all. He’d done his best, and he deserved his money. He wasn’t about to let himself get screwed again by the person who’d hired him.

  WHAT NOW? He typed, after thinking though the possible impact to their already hostile relationship.

  The response didn’t take long.

  WAIT

  John Brown could do that. He turned over the phone and got up from his chair. He had plenty of other things to do today, and there was no point in worrying about what might happen next. He didn’t like worry. It made things complicated.

  He locked up his gun and headed for the shower. A shower was always a good way to start the day. A shower always made him feel better. He emerged from the steam a few minutes later, fresh and clean, and took a look in the mirror. He liked what he saw.

  His hair was a medium brown, neither too straight or too curly. His hazel eyes picked up the colors around him, but never caused comment. His body was good, but not overbuilt or worthy of immediate notice – at least with his clothes on. He wasn’t model handsome, but that suited him just fine. Being too good looking wasn’t an asset in his line of work.

  He changed expressions a few times and then grinned. He could be whoever he needed to be, and that was perfect. His grin turned into a smile as he studied his reflection for a second more. John Brown was ready for a new day.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Tuesday morning, Melba sat on the edge of her bed staring at the alarm clock on the nightstand. She tried to summon up the inner strength to move, but found that no matter how hard she tried, she just couldn’t. She’d been sitting and staring at the clock for forty-seven minutes.

  When she finally dragged herself through the door of the apartment the night before – hurt and distraught over Sam’s death – she forced herself to walk painfully to the kitchen where she pulled a bag of frozen peas out of the freezer. Needing something to dull her aches, she poured herself a glass of wine. After the first taste, she found she didn’t want it. She poured the liquid down the sink then carefully lowered herself to the floor of her small kitchen. She dug around in one of the cabinets until she located a dusty, old bottle of scotch – a holiday present from a few years ago. She pulled herself up, using the edge of the counter for support. She filled the wine glass with several fingers worth of dark, smoky liquor and drank it down, choking once as it burned a trail down her throat. Then she filled the glass again.

  Melba stuck the bag of cold peas under one arm, lifted the bottle with one hand and the wine glass in the other, and hobbled to her bathroom. There, she undressed, dropping her clothing on the floor and leaving the pieces where they fell. She eased herself onto the side of the tub and propped her injured leg up on the toilet, and applied the peas to the swollen knee. She slowly finished her second drink while the cold penetrated the puffy flesh. After twenty minutes, she tossed the peas into the bathroom sink and cautiously stood up, testing her knee.

  She filled the tub and managed to maneuver her body into the water. There she sat, washing herself over and over as tears slid down her cheeks and eventually dropped, one by one, into the hot soapy water. She stayed in the tub until the water cooled, then pulled herself upright and placed her good leg on the bathmat then lifted out her other leg using the back of the toilet for balance. She reached for a towel and wrapped it around her wet body and sat down.

  She poured another inch or so of scotch into the glass and lifted it to drink. Before it touched her lips, she lowered it and set it down on the bathroom counter. She heaved herself up from her seat, and stood by the sink looking into the mirror. “Not much of a surprise, Reightman,” she said dully to the reflection in the glass, “but you look like absolute hell.” She considered her tear-ravaged face and her rat’s nest head of hair. She picked a hairbrush and gave the graying strands a few half-hearted swipes before deciding she really didn’t care how it looked. She dropped the brush to the counter and picked up the wine glass and poured the scotch down the sink. She’d never cared for scotch.

  Melba dried herself off and pulled her faded blue bathrobe from its hook on the wall and eased it over her body. After knotting the belt, she picked up the bottle of scotch and the wine glass and looked down at the now-thawed bag of peas, trying to figure out how she could manage all three items. After giving the problem more consideration than it warranted, she wedged the wine glass in one pocket and the floppy plastic bag of vegetables into the other. With the scotch in one free hand she half hopped, half limped, back into the kitchen.

  She filled a sandwich bag with ice from the freezer and looked at the peas. “What the hell?” she asked, then pulled a plastic cereal bowl out of the cabinet. She ripped open the bag and poured the peas into the bowl, which she then carried, hobbling, to the sagging couch. Propping her leg up onto the coffee table, she balanced the bag of ice on her swollen knee and ate the peas with her fingers, one at a time from the bowl on her lap.

  She sat on the couch for a couple of hours, staring at the empty cereal bowl and occa
sionally looking up at the dark screen as if there was something on that caught her interest, although the television was turned off. She felt like crying, but didn’t have any tears left. She took the now-melted bag off of her knee and placed it in the cereal bowl, which she left on one of the old couch cushions. She tested her knee, eventually deciding that the swelling had gone down a bit. She stood up and went into her bedroom and eased herself down on top of the covers.

  She stared up at the ceiling in the dark room for the rest of the night, thinking about everything that had happened. She recalled the night she’d answered the dispatch call and had walked into the Time Out Spa for the first time to discover Geri Guzman arranged on a massage table, his naked body marred by multiple cuts and slashes across his chest and around his neck. She remembered Toby Bailey as he’d been then; his innocent pale blue eyes, floppy hair and deceptively slight frame causing him to look younger than his actual years. They’d all been bewildered by how the murderer had made their way in and out of the room without leaving a trace. She was still perplexed, because that puzzle had never been solved. She reflected on the next day, when she’d met Madame Zhou, Toby’s seemingly ancient, incapable attorney, who’d surprised them all with her brilliant mind and inscrutable demeanor. She replayed the discovery of Lieberman’s involvement in a case which had since spiraled out of control, and the discovery of his death by apparent suicide. She’d never believed the former City Coroner had taken his own life, but had yet to disprove it. Finally, she reviewed the last several hours, from the moment she and Sam had rushed to meet Toby and review the new evidence he’d found in the lockbox Geri Guzman had rented and filled with a set of ledgers and photographs implicating some of the most prominent social and government leaders in the entire city. Try as she might, she couldn’t erase the image of bright lights rushing down the street, blinding her for moment as the gunman fired at Toby, but instead killed Sam Jackson, her partner of many years.

  Over and over again, the image replayed in her mind, until she sat up and turned on the bedside lamp, and swung her feet off the bed. There she stayed; staring at the alarm clock on the nightstand, counting down the minutes until it would sound its wake-up call, signaling it was time to begin the day.

  An hour later, and only through grim determination, she managed to wrap her knee to give it extra support, then dressed herself and hobbled to the kitchen. She poured a cup of extra strong coffee. Her phone buzzed in her purse and she reached across the counter to retrieve it.

  “Hello,” she croaked, her voice rough and gravelly from screaming and fighting to get to Sam the night before.

  “Detective Reightman, I am sorry to be calling you this early, but there is something we need to discuss.” Melba recognized Zhou Li’s voice, although the old woman sounded uncharacteristically gentle this morning.

  “Yes?” Reightman’s voice was a bit clearer this time. Zhou Li continued to speak and Reightman listened carefully to her words, answering the few questions she was asked. “Alright,” she responded when the woman paused. “I’ll see you both at headquarters a few minutes before eleven.” Zhou uttered a few more words, and then ended the call.

  Reightman stuck the phone back into her purse, smiling a grim, wintery smile. She finished her coffee slowly, waiting for the caffeine to hit her tired, shocked system. She rinsed the cup and gathered her things. Thirty minutes later she walked through the glass side doors of Police Headquarters.

  

  Toby also had difficulty sleeping that night.

  After Officer Mitchell took him back to the lockbox so he could stow the ledger and the photographs, he climbed the stairs to his apartment and called Madame Zhou. He filled her in on what had happened and relayed the information she needed to be prepared for tomorrow. Then he watched from his bedroom window until the last police vehicle left the front of his business, the Time Out Spa. Two uniformed officers remained stationed outside the entrance and he knew there was probably another one inside the building.

  He took a shower, once again washing blood off of his body. This time, the blood belonged to the man who’d saved his life. Detective Jackson had thrown him out of the way when he’d realized the truck speeding toward them was intent on doing them harm. Toby had lost his balance and had fallen to the sidewalk as shots rang out from the vehicle. His own arm had been grazed by a passing bullet, and Sam Jackson had been killed in his place. And it was all because of the things Geri Guzman had done.

  When the hot water turned to cold, Toby leaned against the shower wall and thought about Geri. He remembered him as he’d been when they’d first met, young and beautiful and full of life. He thought about how Geri had changed into a cold, calculating individual, entrapping and blackmailing those who could provide money and services or smooth the rough patches a business owner was bound to run into. In some part of his mind, Geri had believed what he was doing would ensure that Toby never had to worry about those things. Toby wondered if there wasn’t something more behind his actions. Geri had never really had a family, or a place where he belonged until he met Toby and was taken in as part of the family. As a result, he’d never felt like he had much to offer, and always believed himself obligated for the help Toby and Grams provided when he and Toby went to school.

  Geri was killed because of his actions, and others had died as well. Dr. Lieberman, the City Coroner, had been one of Geri’s clients, and had supposedly killed himself. He’d confessed to Geri’s murder, and driven by some form of sick obsession, had removed the foreskin from Geri’s body while it was in the morgue. Perhaps he had killed Geri, but the ledgers and photographs raised a lot of doubt in Toby’s mind. The collective evidence found in the lockbox had convinced Detective Reightman and Detective Jackson that there was good reason to reopen the murder case. It was that evidence that led to the death of Sam Jackson tonight, and would have claimed Toby’s life if things had gone differently.

  Toby remembered the night he’d found Geri murdered and laid out on a massage table in one of the treatment rooms at the spa. His green eyes had stared toward Toby as he stood in the doorway, shocked and horrified by what he saw. There had been blood that night as well; pools of blood on the floor and dripping down Geri’s chest to the massage table and then onto the floor. Toby could still remember the sound of blood hitting the polished wood. He’d been arrested that night. Detective Reightman believed he’d stabbed Geri with a hunting knife engraved on the hilt with his name. Thankfully, Madame Zhou had proven the knife wasn’t his and that he’d been eating dinner when the murder happened. She and Toby had cooperated ever since, trying to help the police find the real killer.

  Geri was dead and buried now, but Toby knew it wasn’t over. He just hoped Detective Reightman could marshal the support she needed to follow this through to the end. But most of all, he hoped she’d be able to recover from the blow of Detective Jackson’s death. He’d been her partner, but most of all, he’d been her friend. She’d been wild with grief and anger tonight and had lost control of herself. Toby winced when he remembered how he’d slapped her, trying to bring her back to her senses. She had needed his help and Toby intended to keep on giving her all the help he could. She didn’t know it yet, but Toby was her friend, too.

  Shivering from cold, Toby turned off the water and stepped out of the shower, quickly wrapping himself in his robe and drying his hair. He crawled into bed and remembered Geri’s green eyes and white smile. He wondered if he’d ever fall in love again. Still turning the question over in his mind, he finally fell asleep.

  

  When Reightman arrived at work she stowed her purse, refusing to look at Jackson’s desk. Before doing anything else, she made the walk to Chief Kelly’s office, her progress slow as she tried not to favor her knee too much.

  Nancy stood up from behind the desk and walked around and gave her a warm, comforting hug. “I’m so sorry, Melba,” she said quietly before pulling away. Bad news always traveled fast around here.

&n
bsp; Reightman ducked her chin in acknowledgment and then glanced at the Chief’s closed door. “Is he here?”

  “No, he hasn’t made it in yet, Melba. I expect him in a few minutes though. I don’t know if he’ll have time…”

  “You’d better start clearing his calendar, Nancy, for the morning at least –if not the entire day.”

  Nancy heard the steely undercurrent in Reightman’s voice and moved back behind her desk, opening Kelly’s calendar on the computer. “Do you want me to call you when he gets in, Melba?”

  “No. I’ll wait for him.” Reightman moved to the wall across from Nancy’s desk and leaned back, relieving some of the pressure from her knee.

  “Okay, but it may be a while before gets in.”

  “I’ll wait.”

  Ten minutes later Kelly strode in, headed for his office. He was talking on his phone in a low, hushed voice. When he noticed Reightman leaning against the wall, his eyes widened and then narrowed in irritation. “I’ll have to call you back,” he said to whoever was on the other end of the call and stowed the phone in his pocket. “Detective Reightman,” he greeted her, his voice clipped and harsh. She thought she saw something flicker deep within his eyes before he looked away from her stare.

  “Chief Kelly,” she greeted him in return, while standing quietly and waiting for what he’d do next.

  Kelly glared at Nancy – who looked away nervously – and then walked to his door. He opened it and entered the office, firmly closing the door behind him. Once again, Reightman leaned against the wall.

  “Melba,” Nancy whispered urgently. “I don’t think this is a good time.”

  “I’ll wait.” Reightman replied.

  A few minutes later, Nancy’s desk phone buzzed. The admin picked it up quickly after shooting a quick, anxious glance her way. “Yes, sir, she is.” She listened for a minute and then placed the phone back into its receiver. Nancy looked up at Reightman with a worried frown and gave a little shake of her head before standing up and leaving the desk.