Justice for Hire (4 page)

Jake pulled the gearshift into first and touched the gas pedal heavier than was necessary, considering the power under the hood. The tires squealed as the car leaped forward and sped across the lot. “Just tell me which way to go,” he said.

“Her name is Sally Flint. She lives a few blocks away. Take a right and go down to Main.”

A cop, who’d stepped from the precinct, frowned as the Hurst mufflers roared and the Firebird spun past him onto the street.

Annie guided Jake, and after a few minutes, they pulled in front of a small bungalow on a street lined on both sides with uniform houses. Towering trees shaded the cobbled street and well-trimmed lawns in front of the tiny clapboard dwellings.

They stepped from the vehicle and took the short path to the front door. Jake rang the bell and it was answered almost immediately.

Sally Flint was a pleasant looking woman, maybe in her mid-sixties, with graying hair tucked into a neat bun on the back of her head. As they introduced themselves, she managed a weak smile and invited them in.

The small front room she led them to looked like an antique shop. Fading pictures hung in ornate frames, outdated wallpaper covered the walls, ancient wooden chairs were scattered about, and tables were littered with knickknacks and photos of moments long past. A tattered rug covered most of the sturdy hardwood floor.

She motioned toward a florid sofa with elaborately carved arms and legs. Jake and Annie sat as Sally perched in a matching chair on the other side of a crowded coffee table. She leaned forward, hands folded in her lap, her face tense.

“Thanks for seeing us,” Annie said.

“I don’t know how I can help,” Sally said, her voice breaking. “I told everything to the police.”

“I realize that,” Annie said, as she felt in her handbag and removed a notepad and pen. “But we need to go over it and get a feel for ourselves.”

“Such a shocking affair.” Sally frowned and shook her head. “A terrible, terrible thing. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“I realize how hard it must have been for you,” Annie said, “but could you go over everything from the beginning?”

Sally nodded. “I’ll try.” She paused a moment before continuing, “It was such a pleasant morning. Mr. Robinson was such a nice man, you know.” Her voice quivered. “He’d been away for a week and got back over the weekend. He had some big deal going on; bidding on some properties I think. He was the president and CEO of Bonfield. Forever busy, but he always had time for the people who worked for him.”

Jake asked, “Can you tell us a bit about what Bonfield Development does?”

Sally smiled. “Most people have probably never heard of the company, but we’ve built high-rises all over the city. Bonfield is a booming company, and like I said, Mr. Robinson was always cooking up a deal.”

“Would Bonfield Place happen to be one of them?” Annie asked.

“Yes, it sure is. Probably the biggest project, and one of the best known retail and office complexes in the downtown area.”

Jake glanced at Annie. “I’ve been there,” he said. “It’s an impressive building.”

“Can you tell us about this morning when Cheryl Waters arrived?” Annie asked.

Sally cocked her head. “Is that . . . the girl’s name?”

Annie nodded. “Yes, we spoke to her a few minutes ago.”

Sally thought a moment before speaking. “The girl . . . she came in, and said she was there to see Charles Robinson, so I buzzed him on the intercom and he came out.”

“She had an appointment?” Jake asked.

“Yes, she did. For 8:30. She was a few minutes early, but Mr. Robinson was able to see her right away.”

Annie was writing in her notepad. She looked up and asked, “What was her demeanor? Any unusual behavior?”

“She seemed pleasant enough, but businesslike. Not smiling or anything, just straight to the point.”

“Did she have the gun in her hand at the time?”

“Oh, no.”

“So she didn’t appear to be a threat in any way?”

“Not at all.”

“Ok, please continue.”

“Well, like I said, I buzzed Mr. Robinson, and he came out to meet her, and then . . .” She took a deep breath and closed her eyes briefly. “And then . . . she just shot him.” She reached into her sleeve and pulled out a tissue, dabbing at her eyes.

“Did you actually see her shoot him?” Jake asked.

“No, she was behind me. She walked past reception and into the main area. I turned back to my desk as Mr. Robinson came out. That’s when . . . that’s when I heard the shot.”

“Just one shot?”

“Two shots before I could turn around, and when I saw him, he’d fallen to the floor.” She paused and dabbed at her eyes again. Her voice shook. “Then she just pointed the gun and shot him again.” She sat back and closed her eyes, dropping her head back. “Dear, dear.” She sighed deeply. “What a terrible mess.”

Jake waited a moment, allowing Sally to regain her composure. She reminded him of his own grandmother, a sweet old woman who’d left Jake with many fond memories of his childhood. As a boy, it seemed she always had special and interesting things for them to do. He was feeling a touch nostalgic just thinking about her. And so, he felt kindly toward Sally. Finally, he asked gently, “And then what happened?”

Sally brought her head back down and opened her eyes. “And then, Fred came out. I tried to stop the girl from leaving, but she didn’t struggle or put up much resistance at all. I called Fred to help me. He came over and held the girl while I called the police.”

Jake waited for her to continue.

“The girl seemed confused. She said she didn’t know what had happened. She didn’t believe us when we told her she’d shot Mr. Robinson.”

“Yes,” Annie said. “She told us the same thing. That she doesn’t remember.”

Sally frowned. “How could someone not remember? It seems odd to me.”

“Yes, it certainly does,” Annie said. “We’re trying to understand it as well.”

“And then, the police came and arrested her,” Sally said. “A nice policeman asked me a few questions and gave me a ride home. I certainly was in no condition to take the bus.”

“Mrs. Flint,” Annie said, and then hesitated. “Is it possible Mr. Robinson was having an affair?”

Sally seemed offended by the question. “Oh, no. Never. His wife dropped by from time to time. They’re such a lovely couple.” She shook her head, frowning. “I would find it hard to believe anything like that was going on.”

Annie smiled an apology. “I had to ask. We’re looking for a motive.” She paused before asking, “Can you think of anyone who would want to harm Mr. Robinson? Any enemies you know of?”

Sally shook her head. “Not that I know of. Everybody loved him.”

There was silence for a few moments as Annie jotted in her notepad.

Finally, Jake asked, “Do you live by yourself?”

“Yes, yes. My husband passed on a few years ago. A bad heart. He worked for Bonfield for many years, and dear Mr. Robinson gave me a job after my Billy passed.”

Annie looked concerned. “Will you be ok here by yourself?” she asked.

Sally sighed and smiled thinly. “I’ll be ok. I’ve had a bit of heartache in my life.”

“Be sure to call if you need someone to talk to,” Annie said. “In the meantime, can you think of anything else about this morning?”

“I believe that’s all,” Sally said, her voice barely rising above a whisper.

Jake stood and offered his hand. “Thanks for seeing us.”

Annie stood and dropped her notepad into her handbag and dug out a business card. She handed it to Sally. “Here’s our number. Feel free to call.”

Sally stood, followed them to the door and let them out.

After they made it down the walkway to the road and climbed into the car, Annie turned to Jake. “Such a sweet lady. I do hope she’ll be ok.”

Jake shrugged as he pushed the key into the ignition and started the Firebird. “She’ll be all right,” he said.

Chapter 7

Monday, August 22nd, 7:08 PM

OLIVER CRAIG dropped the folder onto his desk and raised his head as he heard a light tapping on his office door. He looked toward the sound. “Yes, what is it?” he demanded, annoyance in his voice.

The heavy oak door inched open, and a middle-aged woman stepped into the office, one hand tucked into the pocket of her simple white uniform. “He would like to see you, sir,” she said.

“I’ll be right there.”

The woman turned, and the soft patter of her comfortable nurses’ shoes on the marble floor faded away.

Craig pushed back his chair, his dark eyes thoughtful, as he stared across the luxurious room. Father was dying; there was no doubt about that. He’d been dying for more than a year, but it now appeared he could be in his last days. When his father had first been diagnosed with a brain tumor, he’d entrusted Oliver with information on research Oliver was unaware his father had been involved in. Hundreds of files, years of important and valuable research. Research that was now going to make him rich beyond his wildest dreams.

He brushed a hand through his slicked-back graying hair and wondered what the old man wanted this time. Probably the same thing as usual. His father’s mind appeared to be rapidly deteriorating, his memory certainly not what it once was.

He didn’t want to be disturbed right now. Something had gone wrong with their first operation, and he was trying to figure out why. Perhaps things weren’t as prepared as they had thought. He couldn’t afford another slip-up like this one. Something had to be done about it.

He sighed, tossed his pen onto the desk and rose to his feet. Better see what his father wants.

He left the office, made his way down a long hallway, and stopped in front of an open door. He never liked going in there. The room smelled of death, the taste of the sterile atmosphere in his mouth, the sounds of the equipment as it hummed and pumped, prolonging the old man’s life.

He took a breath and stepped inside the room. The nurse was perched in a chair by the bed, a book in her hands, reading by the fading evening sun that lit the otherwise darkened chamber, as she kept vigil over the dying man.

“You can leave us for now,” Craig said.

The nurse closed her book and slid it on a stand beside her. She left the room and closed the door quietly.

Craig dropped into a chair beside the bed and leaned forward. He studied his father, pale and thin, wasting away, a skeleton covered in paper-white skin. His hair was sparse, not much more than a few strands of white protruding in patches from his otherwise bald head.

The old man turned his head toward his son. “Hello, Oliver,” he said, his breathing shallow, his voice raspy.

“Hello, Father. How are you feeling this evening?”

The aged mouth forced a weak smile, a strange softness in his voice, as he said, “Very weak. But it’s good to see you.”

That was something Oliver hadn’t heard often. The gentleness apparent even through the hoarseness of his voice, and the warm eyes his father now had, were unknown to him. His father always had hard eyes, demanding eyes, piercing eyes. And a sharp voice, never satisfied, always requiring more. Unlike his mother, who’d been weak, submissive and withdrawn.

The faint voice rasped again, “Oliver, I need you to do something for me.”

“Yes?”

The feeble man took a slow breath and his voice labored as he spoke. “My notes. I want you to burn them.”

Oliver frowned. “Burn them? But they are your life’s work. They contain all of your research and may be important some day.”

The old man closed his eyes and shook his head slowly. “No. You must destroy them. Promise me you will. They are dangerous.”

Oliver nodded. “I’ll destroy them.”

The frail man lifted his arm. “Give me your hand, Oliver.”

Oliver was repulsed as he reached out and held the dying hand. It felt like the hand of a child. Small, flimsy, helpless and repugnant. He swallowed the distaste he felt as he looked into his father’s pleading eyes. He saw in them a clarity, and a determined sense of purpose he’d never seen before.

“I should’ve burned them long ago,” the frail man continued. “I should never have given them to you. You will destroy them, won’t you Oliver?”

Oliver nodded and repeated, “I’ll destroy them.”

“We did some terrible things.” The old man coughed weakly. “Unspeakable things. The world must never know the full truth of what was done.”

“It will never know,” Oliver promised.

His father’s searching eyes studied his, and then seemingly satisfied he’d heard the truth, closed his eyes. Oliver dropped the weakened hand and watched as his father rested, his breathing shallow.

Oliver leaned back and contemplated a moment. His father had taught him well in his better days, and he’d learned much. He learned a promise made was as easily broken if the situation demanded it. His father wasn’t in his right mind. Oliver knew if he was, he would never have asked for his research to be destroyed. It was important, and if handled properly, would bring him the power he deserved. Money and power.

He’d given up much for that power. He was married once. His wife had left him a long time ago, taking his young son with her. It was just as well. He’d had more important things to do and didn’t have time for them. And now, when that elusive power was within his reach, almost in his grasp, he couldn’t allow a sudden burst of his father’s confused conscience to stand in his way. He couldn’t let a promise to a senile old man put a stop to his dreams.

Besides, he had come too far.

He rose to his feet, and turning his back on the sleeping invalid, strode from the room.

Chapter 8

Monday, August 22nd, 7:45 PM

ANNIE DROPPED INTO the swivel chair and pulled it closer to the desk. She touched the space bar on the keyboard and in a few moments the iMac woke up, the monitor revealing a photo of Matty and Jake in one of their many wrestling bouts.

She booted up Safari, googled Bonfield Development, and was presented with several pages of information on the massive company.