Then Chief Fitzwarren stopped at our cubicle. “Here is your warrant for the arrest of Jack Jingle for the murder of Jack Wellington.”
"What about the warrant for Jill Dobb?" I asked.
"There is no warrant for Jill Dobb," said Chief Fitzwarren sternly. "She has no connection to this murder."
"What are you talking about?" I asked. "I have evidence that put her at the scene of the crime."
"Then I suggest you get rid of it at once," said Chief Fitzwarren. "That's an order."
"Well, I can't follow that order," I said. I stood so that I was face to face with Fitzwarren. "They're both going down."
Glaring at me, Fitzwarren said, "Detective, you are bordering on insubordination. If you continue in such a manner, I will suspend you.”
"Then I'll report you to IA for corruption,” I said. “You don't want the Dobbs embarrassed by the arrest of their daughter. How much money are they paying you?”
A red-faced Chief Fitzwarren glared at me. His bottom lip trembled. Finally, he said, "If you want to play this game Detective, we'll play. However, I guarantee you that you will be on the losing end."
I smiled then said, "Let's play. Now, if you'll excuse me I have to obtain an arrest warrant for Jill Dobb."
I brushed past the fat man on my way to the clerk's office. Dick followed me then stopped and said, "We're going to arrest a girl from St. Ives for murder."
After obtaining the warrant for Jill, I returned to my cubicle. Dick was on the phone talking to someone.
I had to find Jill. Jack was easy. All I had to do was follow the Young Rats tour schedule. He had concerts in Dover and Exeter. I would get him in Exeter.
"Where would Jill Dobb be?" I asked aloud. I did another search and came up empty. Then it dawned on me if there were no internet files, perhaps there were still paper files.
I immediately made my way downstairs to the file room. I was greeted by Billy "Bandy Legs" St. Martin. He was called ‘Bandy Legs’ because of his ability to tap dance and he had bowed legs.
"Jackson Horner," said Bandy Legs with a huge smile. "What brings you downstairs?"
"I need a file," I said.
"What's the name?" asked Bandy Legs.
"Jill Dobb," I said.
"From the banking family?" asked Bandy Legs. "That’s going to be a problem. Any file on people from St. Ives and Banbury Cross were destroyed."
"What?!" I asked. "Tell me you're joking."
"Nope," said Bandy Legs. "However I believe in justice for all and didn't complete the order."
Bandy Legs opened the cage door and led me to the back of the room. "Give me a hand with this."
I helped Bandy Legs push a shelf aside. Behind the shelf was a door. He opened the door and revealed a room with more than a hundred file boxes.
"Only one other person knows this room is here," said Bandy Legs. "You wouldn't believe some of the things those people have gotten away with."
Going to a shelf, Bandy Legs rifled through a box then said, "Here it is."
He handed me a manila folder. Opening the folder, I quickly looked through it. I smiled. "Thanks, Billy."
"I was told that you would come looking for these one day," said Bandy Legs. "I was told that you would make things right again."
I didn’t know what he meant by any of that. I thanked him again and headed upstairs.
"Jackson, watch your back and the Fatman," called out Bandy Legs.
"I got both eyes on the Fatman," I said.
Chapter 20
After leaving the office, I slowly drove up Rice Street in Pippen Hill on my way to my mother’s house. Rice Street began in Gloucester, traveled north through St. Ives and into Pippen Hill. It was amazing at how the landscape changed as I drove through St. Ives and into Pippen Hill. The stark contrast could be disheartening.
The drive started with me passing mansions priced in the millions and ended with me stopping at my mother's house priced just above a ninety thousand.
It had been weeks since I last saw Mother Hubbard and I had promised myself I would check on her as often as my schedule would allow since she was getting up there in years. She lived in the better parts of Pippen Hill. All of my previous visits started with me asking her to move into an assisted living facility in Gloucester. The discussion ended with her saying, “I’m an ex-cop”.
I came to a stop in front of her two-story blue and white Victorian. Like most houses in the neighborhood, it had bars on all the windows. As usual, the living room light was on which means she was either knitting or reading the Bible.
Everyone in Pippen Hill knew who owned the dark blue ‘69 Coachman. Car thieves knew better to come close to my car.
A few years ago, someone broke into her house. I immediately put the word out on the street that her house was under police protection. My former partner and I found the guy who broke into her house and dropped him from the Lincoln Bridge. I don't even know if he survived the drop.
I rang the doorbell and her Chihuahua, Buzzy, barked excitedly. I begged for her to get a bigger dog. She adamantly refused. She said Buzzy could sit on her lap while she reads.
She pulled back the curtain then, I could hear the three dead bolt locks slide open. After opening the door, she said, “I didn’t think I would see you again.”
I gave her a hug and a peck on the cheek as Buzzy danced around my ankles. “I’ve been busy,” I said. “The bad guys just don’t want to go away.”
She led me into the kitchen for our usual of black coffee and lemon pound cake. “How’ve you been?” I asked as I took my usual seat at the table.
“Just the usual twinges and pain that comes with getting old,” she said as she set the table. After setting the table, she poured coffee into our favorite oversized mugs and cut two large slices of lemon pound cake.
“I made the cake this morning. I had a feeling you would come by,” said Mother Hubbard. "What's going on at the GCPD?"
"I had another run in with the Fatman," I said.
She reprimanded me with a finger wag. "When are you going to learn?"
"Someone has to stand on the side of the angels," I said. "I remember a certain lady who once stood on the side of the angels."
"Standing with the angels got a certain lady put on foot patrol until she retired," said Mother
Hubbard. "What was it this time?"
"He didn't want me to get an arrest warrant for Jill Dobb," I said before tasting the lemon pound cake.
"Isn't she the daughter of Winston Dobb?" asked Mother Hubbard.
"Yes and she may be involved in a murder," I said.
My mother went silent for a few seconds. "I can see why Fitzwarren didn't want to get an arrest warrant. The Dobb family is old money."
"I know, but what does that have to do with anything?" I asked. “Murder is murder, regardless of who commit it.”
"It mean the older the money, the more power they have," said Mother Hubbard.
"Am I supposed to be afraid?" I asked. "I got a job to do."
Reaching across the table, she gently patted my hand. "Still the same headstrong little boy Jackson. Sometimes, son, you need to pick and choose your battle."
"This is my battle," I said. "Someone has to stand up to them."
She smiled. "Just be careful."
Then she changed the conversation. “Some men have been coming around asking people to sell their property,” she said. “Most of the people in the neighborhood have already sold.”
On my way up Rice Street, I had seen plenty of SOLD signs in front of houses.
“So what’s the problem?” I asked.
“They're using strong-arm tactics," said my mother.
“What do you mean?” I asked. "Did they touch you?"
“No, but they broke Nanny Etticoat’s arm,” responded my mother.
“Are you sure she didn’t fall?” I asked. I remember Ms. Etticoat using a cane to get around.
“I’m sure. They broke her left arm and warned
her not to say a word to the police,” said my mother as her voice trembled. "Honestly Jackson, I'm a little afraid."
I have never known Anne Hubbard to be afraid of anything or anybody. These guys had to be some real bad asses to put fear into her heart.
“Do you have any idea who they could be?” I asked angrily. Getting up, she removed a business card from the refrigerator.
Taking the black and red card from Mother Hubbard I read the name: The Bombay Group. The only other information on the card was a number listed in the lower right corner.
“I’ll look into it first thing in the morning,” I said. “I the meantime, you and Buzzy can stay at my house until I get things sorted out.”
“Thanks, but no thanks,” said Mother Hubbard. “I’m not about to let some two-bit thugs run me out of my home.”
"Then I'll stay here," I said. "And I won't take no for an answer."
She smiled then asked, "When are you getting married?"
Chapter 21
The Blacksmith slowly pulled into the rear parking lot of the East Pippen Hill Inn. In the minimal lighting of the rear parking lot he had good concealment. The rear parking lot held junkies doing their drug of choice and prostitutes with their customers. He counted a total of five cars in the rear parking. If anyone saw him sitting here, they wouldn't suspect anything. He blended in with the rest of the people.
Opening the center console, the Blacksmith lifted out a keyboard then pulled a small monitor out of the dashboard. His fingers moved across the keyboard, bringing up the pictures and information of Little Fred and Dick Redcap. He then pulled up a floor plan of the inn. He carefully studied and memorized every aspect of the floor plan, most notably the location of Little Fred and Dick Redcap's room.
Removing the Y99s from the carrying case, he quickly attached a suppressor to each one. After getting out of his car, he shoved the pistols into lower back holsters. The night air was humid. Perspiration had begun to roll down his neck.
Closing his eyes briefly, he focused on the task at hand. He estimated that it would take him less than ten minutes to complete the job.
"'Cuse me mista," said a voice from behind him. He neither turned around nor responded.
"I said 'cuse me mista," said the person, tapping the Blacksmith on the shoulder.
The Blacksmith turned to see a toothless Caucasian woman with pitted skin. Her blue eyes were sunken deep into her face while her brown hair was oily and dirty.
"I'm busy," said the Blacksmith, glaring at the woman. "What do you want?"
"Ya' got any spare change?" the woman asked. "I ain't had nuthin' to eat all day."
He smiled at the thin woman as he reached into his lower back. She held out her hand as she awaited her handout.
He quickly pulled out an Y99 and squeezed off two shots into her chest. The woman fell to the concrete and groaned briefly before the Blacksmith put a third shot into her head.
Looking down at the dead woman, he said, "I hate beggars, but most of all I hate to be touched."
He secured his car then dragged the dead woman between two dumpster bins next to an ivory-covered fence. He now estimated it would take fifteen minutes to complete the hit.
Dressed in shabby black clothing, he blended into the shadows. Coming to a point where he could see the main office, he stayed in the shadows. There wasn't anyone manning the front desk. A scantily dressed woman, most likely a prostitute, stood outside the office smoking a cigarette. Without the woman seeing him, he quickly made his way to the opening which led to the inner courtyard.
He had a clear view of the courtyard. A defunct swimming pool and rusty swing set sat in the middle of the courtyard. Two fluctuating lights provided almost no light to the courtyard.
The inn was a two-floor square building with twenty rooms on each floor. Each floor had ten single rooms and ten double rooms. The even numbered rooms occupied the first floor while the odd numbered rooms occupied the second floor.
A mosquito buzzed his ear as he patiently waited. There wasn't any movement in the courtyard. Places like the EPH didn't employ security of any kind. There wasn't a night watchman or security cameras. Going left, he came to the stairs that led to the second floor. Quickly making his way up the stairs, he came to the landing. In front of him was room 201. He quickly walked down the balcony until he came to room 213. The Blacksmith looked around to ensure no one was looking. He could hear voices, but they weren't coming from the courtyard.
Knocking on the door, he said, “It’s the manager. I’ve had some noise complaints.” He removed an Y99 from his lower back holster and held it at his side. “I'm calling the cops if I get any more complaints.”
He stepped away from the door when he heard the deadbolt locks turn. The door opened enough to give him a view of Little Fred's angry face. “What the fuck are you talkin’ about man? Who the fuck complained ‘bout some noise in this shithouse?”
“Just keep it down okay,” said the Blacksmith. “I know who you are.”
Opening the door a little wider, Little Fred asked, “What the fuck are you talkin’ about man?”
Upon seeing Little Fred, the Blacksmith thought he should have been called Enormous Fred.
“What the fuck do you know?” Little Fred angrily asked.
Raising the Y99, the Blacksmith quickly put two rounds into Fred’s massive chest. Clutching at his chest, the large man stumbled backward and crashed to the floor. The Blacksmith quickly entered the room and pointed the Y99 at a frightened Dick Redcap who had his hands up.
“Whaddya want man?” Redcap asked nervously.
“You’re a loose end and my employer doesn't like loose ends,” replied the Blacksmith.
“Com’on man,” stammered Fred as he nervously shook. “Someone is bringin’ a lot o’ money in a while. We can share it.”
“Sorry Redcap,” said the Blacksmith. He squeezed off three shots that hit Dick Redcap squarely in the chest. The little man slammed into the wall and slumped to the floor.
Then something hit him hard across the neck. The Y99 fell from his hand as everything went dark for a few seconds. Then he felt a kick to the ribs as the air rushed out of him.
“I’m gonna break your fuckin' neck,” said Little Fred as he stood over the Blacksmith. Looking up at Little Fred, the Blacksmith knew the man was being fueled by adrenaline. It was the only explanation as to why he still standing.
Reaching down Little Fred grabbed the Blacksmith by the collar and lifted him off the floor. "I'm gonna kill ya!" screamed Little Fred as he tossed the Blacksmith across the room.
Crashing through the bathroom door, the Blacksmith's head slammed against the toilet. He briefly blacked out.
“I’m gonna shoot ya wit ya own fuckin’ gun!” growled Little Fred as he lumbered towards the bathroom with the Y99 hanging at his side. “Ya fuckin’ shot me, man! I’m gonna fuckin’ kill ya!”
The Blacksmith fought through the searing pain in his head and neck. Blurred vision prevented him from clearly seeing Little Fred. He tried to stand, but couldn't.
Then he heard a shot whizzed by his head. "I'm gonna kill ya! Then I'm gonna kill dat bitch!"
The Blacksmith's mind raced as he thought of his next move. Then he remembered the second Y99 in his lower back. He clumsily removed the handgun and pointed it at the outline of Little Fred in the doorway.
Then he felt a sharp pain in his right thigh. He was shot. Focusing his eyes and trying to forget the pain, the Blacksmith squeezed off two perfect shots hitting Little Fred in the forehead. Little Fred crashed face first to the floor.
Barnes grimaced as he stood. He examined his wound. Luckily for him, Little Fred wasn't a great shot. A few inches to the left, he would have been without a dick and balls. Grabbing some towels, he applied pressure and tied a rag over the wound. As he hobbled out of the bathroom, he kicked Little Fred. He picked up his Y99 and went to the doorway.
Peeking out of the door, he didn't see anyone in the courtyard or on the bal
conies. He hobbled as fast as he could to his car and peeled out of the parking lot.
Chapter 22
I was awakened from my peaceful slumber by Buzzy licking my face. "Enough Buzzy," I said as I pushed away the small dog who quickly scurried out of the room.
Sitting on the side of the bed, I looked around the room I once shared with my adopted brother Peter. Mother Hubbard kept the room the same as when we were teens. Back then, the room seemed much larger.
Going to the bathroom, I brushed my teeth and washed my face. Afterward, I quickly made my way downstairs and into the kitchen where the smell of bacon wafted in the air. There's nothing like the smell of bacon in the morning.
Sneaking up behind my mother standing at the stove, I gave her a peck on the cheek. “Good morning,” I said before taking a seat at the table which held coffee, toast, and eggs.
“I’m sure you can fix your own plate,” said Mother Hubbard as she put set bacon on the table. I nodded and loaded my plate. Like they always say, ‘ain’t no cookin' like home cookin'.
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