Justice Overdue: A Private Investigator Mystery Series Page 2

  Other than the name Varick Lucas, a name now on everyone’s lips, authorities had released no other information, and the press was kept at bay. A massive Royal Canadian Mounted Police manhunt had the entire town in lockdown. Citizens were confined to their homes, the area cordoned off by the federal police.

  The message was firm: people are ordered to stay locked down in their homes, keep off the streets, and allow the RCMP to do its job.

  The unofficial information that buzzed throughout the close-knit community was that an unknown citizen was accosted in his home late last night by an escaped convict, the victim then murdered and robbed. Nobody seemed to know who was killed and the sudden encirclement of the town served to intensify their fear.

  In the early morning hours, teams of police officers had converged on their sleepy village, their weapons drawn. Some patrolled streets within the cordoned off area, others employing K-9 units. Armored security trucks were also visible. Contingents of officers searched homes and businesses, street-to-street, door-to-door, no building left unsearched, every hole, nook, and cranny explored.

  The Mounties had conducted the intensive manhunt through the night, and yet, Lucas had eluded them.

  Seasoned veteran, RCMP Sergeant Lance Brewer, was in charge and he made sure everyone knew it. Brewer leaned against his vehicle and cursed. He had hoped to end this right away. He bounced off the vehicle, turned and uncrossed his arms as a corporal approached him.

  “Report of a stolen vehicle, sir,” the corporal said. “Could be Lucas. All forces province-wide have been notified to be on the lookout.”

  “We’ve about scoured this town clean. He’s gone and that’s going to make it even harder to track down this monster. This might be the break we need.” Brewer raised one ragged brow. “Any way to track this vehicle?”

  The corporal shook his head. “It doesn’t seem like it. It’s an older SUV.” He consulted some notes. “It’s a 2005 4-Runner. Black. No GPS.”

  “Anything else?” Brewer asked.

  “That’s not the worst of it, sir.”

  Brewer frowned. “Spit it out, Corporal Loy.”

  “We believe he’s armed, sir. Neighbors confirmed the murder victim had at least one pistol in his possession. And that’s pistol’s gone.”

  An intense frown took over Brewer’s brow. He cursed again as he dug out his cell phone and dialed a number. “It’s Sergeant Lance Brewer. Give me the Commissioner, priority one.”

  “The Commissioner is tied up at the moment,” came over the line.

  Brewer raised his voice. “Give me the Deputy Commissioner then. And make it quick or I’ll have your tail.” Brewer glared at the phone. “Did you not hear me say priority one?”

  “Just a moment, Sergeant Brewer. I’ll see if he’s available.”

  He waited a moment, kicking impatiently at the dirt. Didn’t they know time was wasting and Lucas was slipping from their grasp? The volatile con would stop at nothing to get away and every second counted. He had to be stopped. Finally, he heard, “What do you have for me, Brewer?”

  “I’m afraid he’s gone, sir. He stole a vehicle and a pistol and now he’s armed and dangerous. I want your ok to extend the manhunt. I need to block all the roads and search all vehicles within twenty miles of here.”

  The deputy commissioner talked fast, the words tumbling over one another as if in a hurry to spit them out. “Do it. I want this guy found. He’s killed two already and we don’t want more. Get on it. Whatever you need.”

  “I need more men, sir. This is a major operation and most of my people here have been up all night. I need some fresh troops and some fresh dogs.”

  “You can have every officer who’s not doing anything vitally important. Our people put their lives on the line every day to protect our citizens and communities. This is what they’re good at. We’ll get him. Hell, we’ll call out the army if we have to. They need some action.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Brewer said, and hung up the phone. He turned to Loy. “I want every piece of information you can get on Lucas. I want his mother’s maiden name and I want to know what he eats for breakfast. Got it? Everything.”

  “Right away.”

  “What about his cellmate?”

  The corporal shrugged. “They’ve finished with him. They’ve been at it all night but can’t get anything from him. He’s a lifer with nothing to lose. I just talked with the deputy warden. He’s pretty convinced the guy has no idea where Lucas is headed.”

  Brewer sighed. “Lucas ain’t stupid enough to give him that information, but I bet he knows something he doesn’t know he knows. What’s the guy’s name?”

  “His name’s Stephan Padre. They call him Rabbit.”

  Brewer bit his lower lip thoughtfully. He had almost thirty-five years on the force with a stellar record, almost ready for retirement with a maximum pension. He couldn’t afford to lose this one. He wanted to go out with a bang, not a whimper.

  Brewer pointed a long finger at the corporal. “I want him put in a four-piece suit and let him cool in the hole awhile. He’s an accessory to murder and I don’t care what it takes. He killed the warden and a guard, and that makes it very personal. He knows something and I don’t want him to eat, drink, or take a dump until he spits up something useful.” Brewer leaned in and glared at the corporal. “Got that?”

  Corporal Loy grinned up at Brewer. “Got it.”

  CHAPTER 4

  Thursday, 9:59 AM

  JAKE PULLED THE piece of paper from his pocket, unfolded it, and studied it. A small black and white photo of a man’s face appeared at the top left of the page. Nothing outstanding about his features, but clear enough to be recognized. The information on the single-page report was sketchy. The insurance company hadn’t given a lot of details regarding the alleged scammer.

  The report stated Maynard Hughes was involved in an auto accident a little more than a month ago and complained about severe back and neck injuries. According to his doctor, the patient also experienced shooting pain down his legs. Apparently, he was in so much agony he couldn’t walk, confined to a wheelchair, taking a regular regimen of painkillers.

  Typical story.

  Sure it happens, and insurance companies don’t suspect foul play every time, but this guy had a pattern of prior claims. No information was given on what the claims were or how they were settled.

  Annie had already done some research on Mr. Hughes, and through her online magic had discovered he’d lost his job a few months ago and was behind in mortgage payments—all indicators of a dubious claim. Hughes also lived alone, having been recently divorced.

  Jake had worked with Richmond Insurance several times in the past and they were right in their suspicions every time. He suspected this time would be no different.

  Jake went into the office and scanned the shelves. He grabbed a pair of binoculars off the top shelf, and of course, a video camera—high-definition. He flicked it on and checked the battery. Lots of power, and the memory card was far from full. He dropped them both into a shoulder bag.

  He wasn’t exactly sure how to proceed or if he had enough time. Sometimes it took a few attempts and lots of patience to get the evidence the insurance company needed, and he only had a few hours before Matty got home and they had to leave. The trip north would take them four or five hours and he wanted to get there and set up camp before nightfall.

  But he would do what he could. He might get lucky.

  He went into the living room where Annie was curled up in her favorite chair. She looked up as he approached.

  “I think I’ll take your car if you don’t need it,” he said. “The Firebird will stick out like a sore thumb and I don’t want to announce my presence.”

  She nodded. “The keys are in my bag—in the kitchen.”

  Jake looked at his watch. “I should be back by two.”

  Annie closed her book and set it on the stand beside her chair. “I’ll have just about everything ready for you to pack by th
en.”

  Jake leaned over, gave her a quick kiss, strode from the room, and one minute later, he pulled Annie’s Ford Escort from the drive.

  Maynard Hughes lived clear across the city, so Jake scooted north, took the bypass, and shortly pulled onto Orleans Avenue. He scanned the street numbers until he found #338, a squat bungalow three or four decades old, rather in need of repairs.

  He pulled the Escort to the curb across the street from the house, shut off the engine, and with great difficulty, climbed over the console to the passenger seat. From there, it would be difficult for anyone in the house to see him. He leaned his back against the door and trained the binoculars on the front window of the house.

  He assumed Maynard Hughes was at home. Hughes made occasional trips to the doctor via the city-financed disabled transit system, but unless he had a vehicle outfitted to take a wheelchair, it was unlikely he ever left the house for any other purpose. That is, unless he felt so secure in his fraud, he went out and left his wheelchair at home.

  As far as he could tell, no one was in the front room. A few books sagged in an otherwise empty bookcase, a dusty picture hung haphazardly on the far wall, and an unoccupied couch sat halfway in view at the other end of the dimly lit room.

  Half an hour later, nothing had changed inside the house and Jake felt restless. Stakeouts weren’t his thing; he’d much sooner be just about anywhere else. He set the glasses in his lap and yawned as he dug a bottle of water from his bag. His hand stopped short, halfway to his mouth. Someone was heading up the driveway toward the house.

  Jake dropped the bottle and grabbed the glasses, training them on the newcomer. It was a young guy, twenties maybe, stringy hair dripping down from a dirty baseball cap. He wore a leather jacket despite the warm day, his right hand stuffed inside the pocket. He strode up the drive, climbed the steps to the front door, took a quick glance in either direction, and knocked. Then he turned his back to the door, stuffed his hands into his jeans, and waited.

  In a few minutes, the door swung open and the newcomer spun back around. Jake trained the glasses on the doorway but all he saw was a pair of feet resting on the footrests of a wheelchair. The visitor entered and the door closed.

  Jake swung the glasses back on the window of the front room and in a moment, the pair entered the room, one sauntering in like he owned the place, the other wheeling his way. The wheelchair stopped and spun around to face the punk, and for the first time, Jake saw Hughes’ face. Middle-aged, graying at the temples, short hair, and unsmiling features. In fact, the face frowned as Hughes waved his hand toward the window. The young guy stepped over and swooped the drapes closed, completely blocking Jake’s view.

  CHAPTER 5

  Five Years Ago

  VARICK LUCAS WAS having the time of his life. Otis had made sure there were lots of females at the party. Varick suspected most of them were hookers, but he didn’t care. The women were loose and the booze was free and that’s all that mattered. Until now, that is.

  “We’re almost out of booze,” Otis shouted over the blaring music as he approached Varick, his arm around a well-painted lady.

  Varick cursed and yelled back, “The party’s just getting started. Where’d it all go?”

  “I didn’t expect so many crashers.” Otis glanced around. “I don’t even know most of them. We gotta get some.”

  “How? The stores are closed, idiot. It’s almost midnight.”

  Otis grinned. “That never stopped us before. We’ll open one up.”

  Varick frowned. They’d almost gotten caught last time. The police just happened to be patrolling the neighborhood at the wrong time. They managed to get away ok, but it was close. He wasn’t too hot on the idea of a repeat performance, but they needed booze. “Can’t you get the Bulewell brothers to do it?”

  “The Bulewells are fools. We have to do it. We can be in and out of there in no time.”

  Varick sighed and climbed from the couch where he was settled in between a pair of scantily clad girls. One of them grabbed his hand and asked, “Where you going, Varick?”

  He turned back. “Just a little business to take care of, Modesty. We won’t be gone long.”

  Modesty pouted and looked at him through drunken eyes. “Can I tag along with you?”

  Varick pulled his hand away. “Not this time.”

  “Hurry back then.” Modesty gave him a seductive smile, then settled into the couch, took a sip of booze, and chatted with the girl beside her.

  “All right. Let’s go,” Varick said, and followed Otis into the bedroom. The room happened to be occupied but they paid no mind to the couple on the bed. Otis slid open the closet door and dug around on the floor behind a pile of shoes. He stood and turned back, brandishing a pistol and a pair of ski masks.

  “I’ll take the gun,” Varick said, reaching for it.

  Otis frowned and held on to the weapon. “We’re not going to plug anyone. It’s only for effect if we need it.”

  Varick laughed and wrested the pistol from his friend’s hand. “I’m not going to use it. The place’ll be empty anyway,” he said, as he shoved the gun behind his belt and pulled his shirt over it. “Let’s go.”

  They left the apartment and climbed into Otis’s Jeep. Varick frowned as the roar of the vehicle broke the quiet night air. “You need a new muffler. They’ll hear us coming for miles.”

  Otis shrugged. “We’ll park a couple blocks away. Don’t worry so much.”

  They drove without speaking for several blocks, and then Otis pulled the Jeep over in a dark alley behind a tenement. He shut the engine down, opened the back door, and removed a bolt cutter. “My key,” he said. “Guaranteed to open any door.” He produced a gym bag and handed it to Varick with a snicker. “This should hold our purchases.”

  They donned the ski masks and kept to the shadows as they made their way down the alley and out to the main road.

  Varick pointed across the street to the large liquor store and whispered, “There it is. Refreshments.”

  They ducked low, waited until a car idled by, and then crossed the quiet street and circled around behind the brightly lit building.

  “Remember,” Otis said, as he gripped the bolt cutter and slapped the free end against his palm. “We got two minutes max after the alarm blows.”

  Varick nodded. The last time they’d attempted this, they’d overestimated the response time of the police. It wasn’t going to happen this time. “Just open ‘er up and let’s do this.”

  Otis took a last look up and down the alley before approaching the door. The bolt cutter occasionally served as a crowbar while he worked, mangling the hinges until the door sagged, ready to cave. He looked at his friend, and then gave one last wrench. The door fell forward with a crash, narrowly missing Varick.

  An inner door was made of bars, held by a padlock, and as the alarm screeched, Otis gave the lock a quick snap with the cutter and the door swung inward. They gazed at aisle after aisle of gleaming bottles—enough to last them forever.

  “Nice of them to keep the lights on for us,” Otis shouted, as they stepped inside. He held the gym bag open while Varick scooped bottles from the shelves, filling the bag.

  Over the clanging of the alarm, Varick heard a shout, then from the corner of his eye, saw a sudden movement. Otis went down, clobbered by a baton. A bottle of vodka hit the floor and broke into a million pieces, the expensive liquid splashing at Varick’s feet.

  He cursed and jumped back. It was a security guard. There were no guards last time, and he didn’t expect one this time. Probably due to one too many break-ins. He swiped the pistol from his waist, raised the weapon, and glared at the uniformed man.

  The guard raised the baton and shouted over the din of the alarm. “Drop the gun.”

  Varick squeezed the trigger. The guard went down, blood soaking his uniform, his heart pierced through by a single bullet. Varick knelt by his motionless friend. Otis still breathed, but he wasn’t moving. He would have to leave the bo
oze and drag him out of here.

  Then a second guard appeared brandishing a pistol, pointed directly at his head. “Don’t move.”

  Varick dropped to the floor, raised his gun and began to squeeze the trigger. His hand trembled. It was a woman. He rolled to his feet, glanced at Otis, then the bag of booze, then the guard, and stumbled from the store. Behind him, the guard continued to yell for him to stop. He tripped over a bag of garbage, hit the ground with his right shoulder, and ended up on his back.

  “Put your hands up.” She pursued him relentlessly, coming up fast from behind, her gun ready.

  He gripped his weapon, and again, he contemplated shooting the pursuing guard. He couldn’t do it. He rolled to his feet, ducked behind an industrial-sized garbage bin, and then clung to the wall, out of sight of his pursuer.

  The police would be here any moment. He hated to leave Otis in the lurch like that, but he had no choice. His knew his friend wouldn’t squeal on him and the female guard would never recognize him. The ski mask made sure of that. He would be ok.

  He tugged off the mask, stuffed it into his jacket pocket, and raced down the alley to the street beyond, leaving the guard behind. He had better not go back to the party. He would head home and lay low until this whole thing blew over. Maybe get out of town if things got too hot.

  It was the first time he’d killed anyone. It didn’t really bother him; the fool guard should’ve known better anyway. Maybe he should go back and finish the job, kill the other guard and help Otis get out of there. But no, he knew he could never kill a woman. Otis was screwed and there was nothing he could do about it.

  CHAPTER 6

  Thursday, 10:35 AM

  JAKE GRABBED THE shoulder bag and jumped from the vehicle. Something was up inside Maynard Hughes’ house and he had to see what it was.