Cold Justice Page 14

  “Richmond Valley Park. There’s a bench at the south end, near the wading pool. I’ll meet you there. Bring the cash.”

  “I can meet you at ten o’clock,” he said. “With cash.”

  “I’ll be there.”

  “How will I know you?”

  She thought quickly. “I’ll be wearing a red jacket and a red floppy hat. I’ll be on the bench.”

  “Ok,” he said. “I’ll be there at ten. Bring the note.”

  “I will,” she said, and hung up. She was shaking all over now. She pushed a chair over to the fridge and climbed on. Opening the cupboard above, she pulled down a bottle of Irish whisky. That would help.

  She jumped from the chair, her shaking hands finding a tumbler in the cupboard. She filled it half full, and took a long sip. It made her catch her breath, but it warmed her stomach and she immediately felt better.

  She looked at the clock. A couple hours to get ready. She sat at the table and sipped at the drink, excited and nervous, planning ways to spend her future fortune.

  Chapter 29

  Thursday, August 18th, 8:36 PM

  JAKE WAS SLOUCHED on the couch with Matty plunked beside him. They were watching television when his iPhone rang. He slipped it from its holder.

  “Jake Lincoln.”

  “Mr. Lincoln, my name is Isaac Shorn. Anderson Blackley has retained me as legal council. He tells me you are fully aware of the circumstances surrounding his arrest, is that correct?”

  Jake leaned forward and stood up. “Yes, we are well aware.” Hank had called Jake and informed him immediately after the arrest.

  “Mr. Blackley has asked me to contact you. He would like to avail of your services, if you are willing?”

  “Certainly, Mr. Shorn. My wife and I are convinced Mr. Blackley had nothing to do with the death of his wife.”

  “Could you drop by the jail this evening? Immediately if possible. He’s only allowed one visitor at a time, other than myself, and we would like to go over the case with either you, or Mrs. Lincoln.”

  “Absolutely. One of us will be there within the half hour.”

  After he ended the call, Jake went to office where Annie was going over her notes. She looked up at him. “Who called?”

  “Blackley’s lawyer. He wants our help, and would like one of us to talk to Blackley right away.”

  “Go ahead,” Annie said. “I’ll stay here with Matty.”

  Jake nodded. “Ok.” He turned to leave.

  “Don’t forget your notepad,” Annie called.

  Jake glanced over his shoulder. “I keep my notes in my head.”

  In a few minutes, Jake was out the front door. The Firebird roared away, and he made it to the precinct in record time.

  He knew a lot of the cops in town, and some of the officers on the evening shift were familiar faces. After a casual search, he was led through a secure door, and then downstairs to the holding cells.

  There were six cells, three on each side of the passageway. Prisoners were held here awaiting arraignment, or temporarily before transport to prison, or sometimes just as an overnight ‘drunk tank’.

  He approached the central control room, staffed by deputies. A young cop looked up.

  “I’m Jake Lincoln. I’m here to see Anderson Blackley. He’s with his lawyer, and has requested to see me.”

  The deputy consulted a sheet of paper. “No problem, come this way.”

  Jake followed him to a door guarded by an officer who swung it open, allowing him to enter.

  The interview room was a small, soundproofed area, with one chair on the near side of a shiny metal table, and two on the other. The room was brightly lit, with barren, blank walls. Blackley was seated at the far side, his wrists cuffed to a ring on the table. The man sitting beside him stood and offered his hand. “I’m Isaac Shorn,” he said.

  Jake shook his hand. He had a firm grip, not unlike what one would expect from a good lawyer. The chains rattled as he shook Blackley’s hand. He sat in an uncomfortable chair on the near side of the table and leaned forward, resting him arms on the cold metal.

  Shorn was younger than Jake had expected. He looked like he was fresh out of law school. His dark-framed glasses sat neatly on his long straight nose. He was clean-shaven, with a hundred dollar haircut. His suit looked like money. He’s either very good, or comes from a rich family. Jake decided he was the former. He just looked it.

  “Thanks for coming so quickly,” Shorn said.

  Jake nodded.

  “Mr. Lincoln, I am convinced of my client’s innocence. My firm has done some work for Proper Shoes in the past, and we have had some dealings with Mr. Blackley as well.”

  “Then the three of us agree,” Jake said. “Now all we have to do is convince the police.”

  “Mr. Blackley has been questioned briefly, under my supervision, and they have revealed the evidence against him. It’s circumstantial, but it’s enough for the DA. I expect he will be arraigned in the morning, and hopefully, bail will be set.” He glanced at Blackley. “However, bail could very well be denied. Not unusual in the case of a charge of murder.”

  “And so, you need us to find the real guilty party, asap.”

  “Correct.”

  “What do they have?” Jake asked.

  Shorn consulted some notes. “Well, for starters, they pulled a garbage bag from the bin where Mrs. Blackley’s body was found. It contained an empty wine bottle, two wine glasses, and a cloth. The wine in the bottle was consistent with some droplets of wine found on the floor at Mr. Blackley’s residence.”

  “Consistent?”

  “The same alcohol content and other similar ingredients. Not conclusive, but given the circumstances, it’s clearly from the same bottle.”

  Jake nodded.

  Shorn continued, “We’re not disputing any of their evidence. The DA has to prove Mr. Blackley is guilty. The burden is up to them, however, because of the weight of evidence, we need to prove, not that it wasn’t him, but exactly who the guilty party is.”

  “We’ll do our best, you can be sure of that. What else do they have?”

  “They found a hammer in the garage with Mrs. Blackley’s blood on the head, a strand of her hair, with Mr. Blackley’s fingerprints on the handle.”

  Jake whistled and looked at Blackley.

  “I have no idea how that got there,” Blackley said. “It’s my hammer, so certainly it would have my prints, but the blood...” He shrugged.

  “Anything else?” Jake asked.

  “His alibi is a problem. Since the time of death is unknown, Mr. Blackley could conceivably have driven home, killed his wife, and then driven back to his hotel.”

  “It’s not looking too good,” Jake said.

  “It sure isn’t, and unfortunately, the way I see it, none of this points to the real killer.”

  Jake looked at the ceiling a moment, and then said slowly, thinking out loud, “It points to the fact Mr. Blackley was obviously framed. The question is, who framed him, and why?”

  Blackley spoke, “I think she was having an affair, it went bad, and he killed her. He framed me to cover his tracks.”

  “So,” Jake said. “We need to find out who she was having an affair with, and then hopefully, we’ll have our man.”

  “Exactly,” Blackley said.

  “Is that everything they have?” Jake asked.

  “It appears so. They haven’t done the autopsy on Mrs. Blackley yet, to the best of my knowledge. That may, or may not help us.”

  “Then if there’s nothing else you can tell me, let me get on this,” Jake said. “I’ll discuss it with my wife, and we’ll see where to go from here.”

  Chapter 30

  Thursday, August 18th, 8:56 PM

  THINGS WERE GETTING complicated. His little spat of anger the other night was causing him all kinds of problems now.

  He had been thinking about this since she had called him, and he could only see one way out of this messy situation.

&n
bsp; The problem was, he was not totally convinced on whether or not he was being set up.

  Sure, she had the note. The picture she sent had left no doubt about that, but what if she was working with the police. Maybe they wanted to catch him in the act; cold proof the note was legit.

  Twenty-five thousand dollars was ridiculous. There was no way he could lay his hands on that kind of money. He didn’t intend to pay anyway. He had other plans.

  He would cover his own butt, and call Tommy. His nephew, Tommy Salamander, was a no good, two-bit thug, but he would come in handy right now.

  He hadn’t seen or heard from Tommy in some time. He knew he was still in the city, hopefully not in jail, but didn’t know exactly how to get ahold of him.

  So, he called his sister. She was curious as to why he wanted to talk to Tommy. He rarely ever talked to her, his own sister. So, he told her a young cousin was in town and wanted to hire somebody who could show him around the city. Who better than Tommy?

  His sister didn’t think Tommy was the right guy for that, but she accepted his lame excuse, and gave him Tommy’s phone number.

  He called it.

  “Hello?” It was a woman.

  “Is Tommy there?”

  He heard her yell, “Tommy. Get the phone.”

  A pause.

  “Yeah?”

  “Tommy, it’s your Uncle Boris.”

  “Uncle Boris. Hey, Uncle Boris, I hear you’re a big time doctor now. Some kind of psycho, or something.”

  “A psychiatrist Tommy. I’m a psychiatrist.”

  “Whatever. Now, why would you be calling me?” His voice was raspy, like he had smoked too many cigarettes. Probably done too many drugs, too.

  “I need you to do something for me.”

  “You need a favor? From me? Is this a paying gig?”

  “It’s worth a thousand dollars to me, and it’ll only take you an hour or so.”

  “A thousand bucks? What’s the job?”

  “I need you to pick something up for me.”

  “You’re not into drugs are you?” Tommy asked. “Cuz if you are, I can supply you any time. Good stuff. Good price.”

  Hoffman’s voice was sharp, and impatient. “No, I’m not into drugs, you idiot. It’s just an envelope. A piece of paper. Can you do that?”

  “I can do that.”

  Hoffman told Tommy who he should meet, how he would recognize her, and exactly where she would be waiting. “Make sure you’re there by ten o’clock.”

  “No probs.”

  “Now, listen closely, Tommy. She is expecting you to bring her some cash. So, I want you to put together some kind of package that looks like it could contain a stack of cash, and wrap it up. Make it look real. Got that so far?”

  “Yeah, I got that.”

  “She will have a note on her. Maybe in an envelope. She is expecting the cash in exchange for the note. Now listen. I need you to make sure you get the note from her.”

  “Make sure I get the note. Ok, got that.”

  “And then scare her real good. Threaten her.” Hoffman added sarcastically, “I’m sure you’re good at that.”

  Tommy laughed. “I can do that. Should I hurt her?”

  “If you have to, but just enough to scare her. Nothing serious. And then, bring me the note right away. You know where I live?”

  “Yup.”

  “Any questions?”

  “What’s her name?”

  “I don’t have her name. It doesn’t matter anyway. Just look for the woman in the red floppy hat on the bench. She’ll be expecting you. Tell her I sent you. Any more questions?”

  “Not really. It sounds pretty straight forward.” Tommy paused. “You’ll pay me the thou as soon as I give you the note?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Just wanted to be sure. You wouldn’t consider making it two thou, would you?”

  “I think a thousand dollars is pretty good for a couple hours of easy work.”

  “Yeah, ok.”

  “So, I should see you by eleven o’clock or so. Don’t mess around. Come straight here.”

  “Yeah, yeah. Don’t worry so much.”

  “Do you have transportation?”

  “Sure. I got a bike. A sweet little Suzuki. Takes me anywhere.”

  Hoffman hesitated. He hoped he was doing the right thing. “Ok, Tommy. See you soon.”

  “So long Unc.”

  What a mess. If this useless nephew of his screwed up, he could be in even worse trouble than he already was.

  Chapter 31

  Thursday, August 18th, 8:59 PM

  WHEN ANNIE PUSHED the scaling wooden door open and stepped into Eddie’s Bar, she was hit with the pungent odor of stale beer, mingled with the smell of something like old eggs.

  She squinted to see in the darkened, windowless room. A well-worn bar ran along one wall. A half dozen people sat on spindly towers, hunched over their beer, unmindful and uncaring of the presence of others. A jar or two of pickled eggs, plastic bowls of pretzels and peanuts, and a swiveling stand of dusty potato chips decorated the far edge of the bar. The smell of old grease and burnt french fries mingled in with the rest of the odors.

  Rows of all kinds of favorite poisons lined a pair of shelves behind the bar, catching the flickering gleam of Schlitz, Bud, and Miller neon.

  Stagnant cigarette smoke lingered below the ceiling, gently wafting around in places where the lazy overhead fan stirred the air.

  Peanut shells and sawdust littered the floor, kicked around and never swept. The only place free of the cracking waste was the tiny dance floor that now entertained a couple of aged patrons. A quarter-a-play pool table sat forgotten a little further away.

  Fake wood paneling could be seen on areas of the walls that were visible around the dated posters, tacked up photographs, and glow of more neon.

  Eight or so precarious tables filled the center area, three now in use, patrons leaning forward, hands gripping tightly about their glass, a look of yesterday’s forgotten life in their unseeing eyes.

  Quiet music filled the background, drowning out the silence. Hank Williams cried into his beer, moaning about a long lost love.

  Annie approached the bar, brushed a stool with her hand to avoid sitting on any lingering traces of its last occupant, and carefully climbed on. She looked at the bartender, now wandering her way.

  She was a little past middle age, pleasantly overweight, with a friendly, but well-worn face. A warm spark in her eyes belied her obvious hopelessness of ever seeing better days, resigned to her mundane life, and eager to make the best of it.

  She blew back a strand of her frizzy, wine-colored hair, and asked, “What can I get you, honey?” Her voice contained a pleasant huskiness, like fine sandpaper.

  Annie eyed the taps behind the counter. “Just a draft,” she said.

  The bartender selected a beer glass from the towering stack, gave it a final scrub with her apron, and filled it to the top. The head bubbled and flowed down the side, dripping onto the bar, as she carried it and set it on a Miller Lite coaster in front of Annie.

  “How much?” Annie asked.

  “Pay me when you leave. I don’t expect you’re gonna run out on me.” She paused. “I’m Meg, by the way.”

  Annie smiled, “I’m Annie.”

  “You don’t look like you belong here, honey. Is everything all right at home?”

  “Oh yes. Actually, I was just looking for a little information.”

  “Well, sweetheart, if it happened here, you can bet I know about it.” Meg grinned a friendly grin. With nice teeth, not expected.

  Annie swung her handbag from her shoulder and snapped it open. She slid out a photograph. It was Abigail Macy. She flipped it around and held it up. “Do you remember this woman coming in here, Meg?”

  Meg glanced at it briefly. “Sure, I know her. Name’s Abby. She’s been coming here a lot lately. Haven’t seen her for a few days though. She’s like you. Doesn’t look like she would freq
uent an establishment of this nature.” She laughed. She had a pleasant, full laugh, probably often used.

  A couple of pool balls cracked across the room, and then a curse. George Jones was crooning now. A man choked out a cough somewhere down the line, probably wasting the hours, waiting for his turn to die.

  Meg’s laugh faded as Annie said, “Unfortunately, she’s dead now.”

  Meg touched Annie’s hand and leaned in. “Ohhh. What happened dear?”

  A man barked across the room. Meg told him to shut up and wait, and poured another glass of the yellow liquid, delivering it to him. “You’ve just about had enough, Charlie,” Annie heard her say.

  Meg returned. “Sorry. Have to slop the hogs once in a while. Now, you were just about to tell me about Abby. Whatever happened to her?”

  “She appeared to have committed suicide, but I know she didn’t. I am trying to find the truth.”

  “Sheesh. She seemed awful sad most of the time. Usually brightened up after a couple of drinks, though.” She shook her head. “What a shame. She was such a nice gal. Real polite and all.”

  Annie nodded. “That’s what everyone said about her. She was well liked.”

  A man tapped his glass on the bar. “Fill me up, Meg.”

  Meg obeyed, took his money, dropped it in the register, and turned back to Annie.

  “Did she always come here alone?” Annie asked.

  “Yup. Always.”

  “Did she ever meet anyone, or talk to anyone?”

  “She barely talked to any of the guys here.” She glanced around the bar. “Can’t say as I blame her. This pack of blokes ain’t worth a wooden nickel.”

  “She just sat alone?”

  “Well, Wilda comes in here a lot. Most every night.” She pointed across the room. “She usually sits right over there. She comes in about ten or so. Her and Abby would chat all the time. That’s about the only one she ever associated with.”

  “Maybe I’ll come back a little later and see if Wilda comes in,” Annie said.

  “Sure, honey. You’re welcome here any time. You kinda class up the joint a bit, if you know what I mean. Somebody intelligent to talk to. It gets awful lonely here sometimes, looking after these fools all the time.”