Runaway Justice (David Adams)

by Chad Zunker

  “Damn, no plates.”

  Jess began rewinding the video. “Maybe we can get a shot of when he arrived.”

  They discovered the guy had pulled up in his truck around two thirty that afternoon. But the angle toward the back bumper of the vehicle was completely blocked by other parked cars. Still no good license plate shot. At that point, the guy with the goatee had gotten out of his truck, stared over toward the front of the Hand-Up Home, lit a cigarette, and puffed while just standing there for about ten minutes.

  David watched him closely. Who was this guy? Was his encounter with Parker random? Was he just some creep? Or was he the reason the boy had run away from the home this morning? Was he the guy Parker had said was going to hurt him bad in the voice mail?

  The man finally walked away from his truck and began strolling to his left until he was completely out of camera view.

  Jess glanced up at him. “What do you think?”

  “Not much to go by.”

  Jess turned back to the screen. “What about all of those stickers he has on the back window?”

  David leaned in again. “Can you enhance that shot?”

  Jess pulled up a shot of the truck’s dirty back window. There were about a dozen faded stickers covering the bottom border. Random skulls and crossbones. Half-naked ladies. Coors. Budweiser. Jack Daniel’s. Freddy’s Salvage. Little River Dragway. The Burping Goat. Remington firearms. David was already searching on his phone.

  “Freddy’s Salvage is a local junkyard,” he said.

  Jess was also on her phone. “Little River Dragway is a racetrack about an hour north of here.”

  David studied the sticker for the Burping Goat, which showed a cartoon goat chugging a mug of beer. He typed into his phone. “The Burping Goat looks like a local bar.”

  “The bar and the junkyard are worth checking out,” Jess suggested. “Maybe we can find someone who recognizes this guy.”

  “Worth a shot.”

  “Let’s split up. I’ll head to the bar. You and your FBI pals can take the junkyard.”

  She gave him a playful smile. He rolled his eyes.

  “Call me if you find something,” he said.

  EIGHTEEN

  Using her maps app, Jess followed directions for about fifteen minutes until she pulled into a run-down retail strip in a seedy part of the city with a convenience store on one end, a paint store in the middle, and the Burping Goat bar at the opposite end. The same logo with a goat chugging a beer was in neon lights above the front door. Because it was midday, the bar was currently closed. No vehicles were parked outside, either. A faded sticker on a window said the bar opened at three. She pulled on the red wooden front doors but found them locked. Then she peered through the filthy windows to see if she could spot anyone inside. She could hardly see anything because the glass panes were covered in so much dirt and grime. But she spotted a collection of pool tables with a long bar in the back. She gave several firm knocks on the front door, waited, but got no response.

  Circling around to the back of the building, Jess spotted four overflowing metal dumpsters. Boxes and trash bags were spilling out the top of each one. It smelled like a mix of cigarettes, alcohol, and vomit. This was not exactly a high-end establishment. She found an older Dodge Ram truck parked directly behind the bar. Maybe someone was here. As she approached the back door to the bar, it swung open. A young guy in his early twenties with a thick mustache and wearing faded jeans and a pearl-snap shirt unbuttoned to his stomach appeared with two trash bags in his fists. The guy was tan and muscular and looked like he should be doing ads for a Western magazine.

  “Hi there,” Jess said with a friendly smile.

  He paused, took a good long look at her. “Well, hello yourself.”

  “You work here?”

  “Yep.” He stepped past her to one of the dumpsters and swung both trash bags high up on top of a mountain of other bags. Turning back, he wiped his hands on his jeans. “You need something?”

  “I’m looking for someone.”

  He grinned. “I hope that someone is a charming cowboy like me.”

  She matched his grin, willing to be flirty. “Not today.”

  “Well, that’s a damn shame.”

  She introduced herself. He said his name was Cody.

  “Who’re you looking for, Jess?”

  She held up her phone to show him a close-up of the guy with the goatee standing beside his black truck. “You recognize this guy? I think he might come around here.”

  The bartender studied the photo. “Yeah, I recognize him. That’s Richie.”

  “Do you know his last name?”

  He shook his head. “Nah, sorry. I don’t think I’ve ever caught it. He always pays in cash. But you’re right; he’s here all the time. Although now that I think about it, I haven’t seen him here all week. Probably in jail or something.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  Cody shrugged. “The guy is kind of a troublemaker. I’ve had to break up a couple of fights. Why’re you looking for him?”

  “I’m an investigator trying to help a troubled child. We think Richie is important to the case. When was the last time you saw him?”

  Cody twisted up his mouth. “Probably Sunday night. I only remember because the Cowboys were playing the Giants. The bar was crowded. And Richie was saying how he was going to buy a round of drinks for everyone whenever he got back.”

  “Got back from where?”

  “Hell if I know. He left early and never came back.”

  Jess felt her adrenaline kick into gear. Sunday was six days ago. The same night when Max Legley, the federal witness, was shot dead in the city park.

  “How often did Richie buy drinks for everyone?”

  “Never. But he said he was about to get paid. None of us took him seriously.”

  Get paid? Could someone have hired the guy to kill Legley?

  “Any idea how I might find Richie?” she asked.

  “Not really. Sorry. Maybe come back tonight? See if he shows up?”

  “Okay, thanks. I really appreciate your help.”

  “Anytime. If you do come back tonight, drinks are on me.”

  She smiled. “I’ll think about it.”

  Cody’s face tightened up a bit. “Hey, but seriously, be careful with Richie. I’m not usually one to talk badly of people, but that guy is trouble. I’ve learned to spot the bad seeds. And that guy has bad written all over him. I just don’t want to see someone as beautiful as you getting hurt.”

  NINETEEN

  David pulled his truck up to a small portable building with a cheap sign out front that said “Freddy’s Salvage” and a tag below that read “Do the Picking to Keep Your Car Ticking.” Behind the dingy building was a dirt field full of heaps of beat-up old cars that looked like they had all been picked apart. Some were missing bumpers; others, doors, tires, and so forth. In the middle of the dusty rows, he spotted someone operating a huge forklift and digging a car out of one of the piles. Could that be the guy with the goatee? David had wondered why the mystery man would have a sticker of a junkyard on his truck unless he worked there or something. Although there didn’t seem to be much discrimination in his choice of window stickers. David squinted and then shook his head. The guy on the forklift was older, with a ponytail poking out the back of a ball cap.

  Still, David wanted to be on guard in case the guy popped out somewhere and didn’t like seeing someone asking questions about him. Getting out, David peered behind him and watched the gray Buick settle onto the side of the road about fifty yards away. He fought the urge to flip them the bird. Walking up to the front door of the portable building, David couldn’t tell if it was an actual office or a home residence. He knocked. A few seconds later, a man with a long gray beard and blue overalls opened the door. He had on the thickest glasses David had ever seen. And he still seemed to be squinting through them at him.

  “Well, hello, can I help you?”

  “Are you Freddy
?”

  “Yes, sir, Freddy Lenard. At your service.”

  “My name is David Adams. I’m an attorney. I’m hoping you can help me find someone, Mr. Lenard.”

  “Please, call me Freddy.”

  “Okay, Freddy.” David held up a still shot on his phone of the goateed guy. “Any chance you recognize this man?”

  Freddy’s eyes narrowed in on the image. “Well, sure, that’s Richie Maylor. He used to work for me.”

  David made a quick mental note of the name. That was a big help already. “But he no longer works here?”

  “No, I’m afraid not. Things didn’t work out.”

  “Any idea how I might find Mr. Maylor?”

  “Well, come on inside. Let me see what I can do.”

  Freddy held the door open and allowed David into the building. It was indeed an office. Everything was nice and neat, which David had not expected when he’d approached the dirty building. Two desks were on the right side of the room, with bookshelves and file cabinets behind them. There was a long folding table with metal folding chairs around it in the middle of the room. Then on the opposite end was a kitchen with a refrigerator.

  Freddy made his way around one of the desks and sat in a brown leather chair. “Please, have a seat, Mr. Adams. Why are you looking for Richie?”

  David sat in a comfortable chair in front of the desk. “Well, sir, I’m working on an important case that involves him.”

  Freddy looked up. “Oh boy. What has that boy gone and done now?”

  “I’m not sure yet. I just need to find him.”

  “Well, I know I have his contact info in a file.” He spun around in his chair and began pulling drawers out of a cabinet.

  “How long did Richie work for you?” David asked.

  “Not too long. A couple of months.”

  “Why is he no longer working here?”

  “Well, Richie had trouble showing up on time. And sometimes he wouldn’t show up at all.”

  “So you fired him?”

  “Well, I’m afraid so. I wanted to give that boy a chance. Not too many are willing to hire ex-cons, but I like to give people second chances, you know. And sometimes third chances. For heaven’s sake, the good Lord has given me a lot of second and third chances.”

  “So Richie was incarcerated?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Do you know what for?”

  “I’m not too sure. He never really talked about it. I didn’t ask. Didn’t want him to feel like I was judging him.”

  “What else can you tell me about him?”

  Freddy continued to search his file cabinet. “Not too much. He kind of kept to himself most of the time. When he actually showed up, he did good work. He seemed to have a knack for driving the forklift. Although he’d get mad at it here and there and cuss up a storm. I had to get on him a few times about that. I got grandkids that come around the property. I don’t need them hearing the Lord’s name taken in vain.” Freddy seemed to have finally found what he was looking for. “Here we go.”

  Spinning around in the chair, he put a manila folder on the desk and opened it. David spotted the name Richard Maylor written on the tab. Inside, Freddy found an employment form that Richie had filled out.

  “This ought to do,” Freddy said, handing it to David.

  The form listed Richie’s phone number and home address. David was really getting somewhere now. “Mind if I take a picture of this?”

  “Help yourself.”

  David snapped a photo, immediately texted it to Jess.

  “I really do hope everything is okay with that boy,” Freddy said. “I know Richie has a lot of issues. From what I gathered, he hasn’t had the easiest of lives. But I could see some good in him. If only given the right kind of shepherding and guidance, that boy can still make something of his life.”

  David didn’t have the heart to tell Freddy that it appeared Richie Maylor was up to no good. What exactly, he still didn’t know. But threatening to shoot a twelve-year-old boy was not a positive sign.

  “I really appreciate this, Freddy. You’ve been a big help.”

  “You bet. Good luck.”

  When he stepped outside the building, David got a return text from Jess.

  Meet you there. I’ve got interesting news.

  TWENTY

  Richie stood in the filthy kitchen of a mobile home on cinder blocks that belonged to Manny’s oldest brother, Carlos, who was leaning against a counter, drinking from a bottle of Coors Light. Carlos was in his early thirties, with thick shoulders that popped out of a white tank top. Tattoos of different women’s faces covered both of his muscular arms. Manny sat in a metal folding chair by a small kitchen table. He was much smaller than his oldest brother, but that hadn’t stopped him from being one of the best fighters Richie had ever seen. They’d been friends since middle school. Manny had saved his ass more times than he could count. They did everything together, including their time in lockup. Manny wore a white T-shirt and dirty jeans with cowboy boots and had a pencil-thin black mustache. He’d never been able to grow much facial hair.

  Manny’s other brother, Hector, was also there. Hector was slightly overweight, with a thick black beard. Although he was the quietest of the brothers, Hector was probably the meanest. Growing up, Richie had watched him torture small animals just for kicks. Hector went to prison at eighteen for shoving an elderly woman to the concrete while stealing her purse right outside a grocery store. He was high as a kite that day. The old woman broke several ribs, her collarbone, and hip, and barely survived the fall. Hector didn’t seem to care—the guy just lacked the empathy gene. They were a motley crew, but they always looked after Richie like he was family.

  “What kid?” Carlos asked.

  Richie was explaining his situation with Parker Barnes and his need for help in finding the boy. “Just some stupid kid that saw something he shouldn’t have. And now I need to find him and shut him up.”

  “Whatcha mean, shut him up?” Hector said.

  “What do you think I mean?”

  “You want us to kill a kid, bro?” Manny asked him.

  Even though they were best friends, Richie had not shared with Manny any details about this job for his boss. Mainly because his boss had told him to keep his mouth shut.

  “You don’t have to kill him,” Richie insisted. “Just help me find him.”

  “I don’t have a problem killing some kid,” Hector mentioned.

  “What’s in it for us?” Carlos asked, crossing his massive arms. “We ain’t driving around town looking for some kid for you for nothing.”

  “I know that,” Richie replied. “I got you covered.”

  Richie pulled out the wad of cash his boss had given him earlier. This immediately got the brothers’ full attention.

  “Where the hell did you get that?” Manny asked.

  “Yeah, man,” Hector said, frowning. “You said you were completely tapped out last night.”

  “Chill, bro. I got it this morning.”

  “How much?” Carlos asked, eyeballing the wad.

  The wad was one-hundred-dollar bills. Richie quickly counted out three stacks of $500 on the counter. His boss had given him $3,000. He kept the rest of the cash in his boot, planning to save that for himself. Unless Manny and his brothers needed more coercing.

  “Five hundred for each of you. Not bad for one day’s work.”

  “Hell yeah,” Manny said, perking up.

  Carlos eyeballed Richie. “Where did you get that kind of money, Richie?”

  “Why does it matter? The money is good.”

  “Where’s the rest of it?” Carlos said.

  “That’s all I’ve got,” Richie lied.

  For a second, Richie wondered if Carlos was going to shake him down. If the big brother found the money in his boot, Richie was going to get a major beating. Carlos had kicked his ass plenty of times. Fortunately, Carlos let the moment pass.

  “All right, I’m in,” Hector said,
standing up and grabbing his stack off the counter. “I don’t care who the job is for. I got bills to pay.”

  “Same,” chimed in Manny, grabbing his stack.

  Richie turned to Carlos, who still seemed skeptical. “Well?”

  Carlos finally picked up his money. “You know I’m going to beat the hell out of you if this thing goes south.”

  “It won’t,” Richie reassured him. “All I need you to do is help me find this kid. That’s it, Carlos. I’ll take care of the rest. I swear.”

  Carlos finally seemed satisfied. “All right.”

  Richie smiled. “Okay, let’s go.”

  TWENTY-ONE

  Zegers hopped out of Farley’s black Tahoe in front of a half-finished midtown four-story office building that had apparently been abandoned last year when the company behind the project went bankrupt. Farley joined him on the sidewalk outside the building, which sat next to several other completed office buildings. The structure of the office building was in place but with nothing finished inside. It was just drab concrete, columns, loose wires, and cables. But according to his team, the building was known to be a place where runaway teens liked to hide out because it was close to UT’s campus. A lot of these homeless kids hung around the university since they were at least among similar-age people. His team had been actively hunting places just like this in hopes of finding the boy. So far, nothing.

  Zegers was frustrated on multiple levels. A crappy beginning of his day had only gotten worse upon seeing Jess Raven—a source of recent humiliation for him. On his date with Jess a few months ago, Zegers had foolishly texted a couple of his buddies during the date, while she was in the restroom, to brag on how he was about to get very lucky. Then she’d skipped out on him with a feigned illness and didn’t return any of his phone calls. He would’ve lied to his friends about the whole thing if he and Jess hadn’t shared common social circles. So he was stuck wearing egg on his face. Needless to say, his buddies hadn’t let him live it down ever since. They kept texting him: You getting lucky today, Harry? LOL.