Personal Justice Page 4

  At the time of the shooting of Werner Shaft, Maria Shaft was indeed babysitting.

  The Windsors weren’t suspects, but for the sake of being thorough, he checked their alibi. The waiter at the restaurant remembered them. He confirmed they were there when the murder took place. The time span of the movie was well past the time of the incident, so was inconsequential.

  He drove to the precinct, mulling over what he knew. He had little at this point, the victim’s car being the best piece of evidence. He still needed to get the forensic report, which might give him something to go on, and less likely, the ME’s report. Both should be available later today, but he made a note to check with CSI.

  He parked his Chevy in the back lot, rounded the building, and went up the set of steps to the RHPD precinct. When he stepped inside, he was relieved to find it was a lot quieter than the evening before. The drug squad had finished congratulating each other on the prior day’s bust, and was settled in to work on their next undertaking.

  Everything was back to normal—whatever normal was.

  Detective King moped around, perhaps jealous he was removed from the drug squad to work homicide as Hank’s partner. Hank wasn’t sure what Diego’s thinking was on that decision. Perhaps he wanted to see where King worked best. Hank’s opinion was King didn’t fit in comfortably anywhere except maybe the occasional undercover job. He fit in pretty well with a lot of the riffraff on the streets, with a way—that Hank frowned on—of getting information from the criminal element.

  Hank sat his briefcase beside his chair and crossed the precinct floor to Officer Callaway’s desk. The young cop glanced up as Hank approached and slid a file folder over, handing it to the detective.

  “Some interesting stuff on Werner Shaft there for you. He’s got a record.”

  “Thanks, Callaway.” Hank took the folder back to his desk and sat, pulling his chair in.

  He opened the folder and studied its contents. Werner Shaft was an ex-con. He’d served time for burglary several years ago, had a short record before that, but was clean since being released from prison. Shaft had either gone straight, or gone smart and never got caught.

  Either way, he was dead now, and his record might have something to do with it.

  Shaft’s accomplice in the burglary case was another ex-con by the name of Michael Norton, also with no record since his release. There was no further information on Norton, Callaway’s report concentrating on Shaft.

  Hank spun his chair around and wheeled over to Callaway’s desk. “If you have a minute to spare, I need a complete file on Michael Norton.”

  “Right away, Hank.”

  Back at his desk, Hank perused Shaft’s file more thoroughly. As Maria had said, he was employed at Richmond Distributing. Hank made a note to drop by there and talk to some of his coworkers.

  Callaway dropped a sheet of paper on Hank’s desk. “Here’s everything I could find on Norton.”

  Hank scrutinized the paper, flipped it over, ran his finger down the page, and stopped. Norton owned a 2012 Honda Accord registered in his name—white. It fit the description of the vehicle the gunman drove, according to the witness.

  That information, along with his association with Shaft, was enough for them to bring Norton in, and maybe some serious questioning would result in a confession.

  Hank got on the phone and called lead CSI, Rod Jameson. “Do you have anything for me yet?”

  “We’re still processing everything, Hank,” Rod said. “I just got the ballistics report back and I’ll get it to you right away.”

  “Anything enlightening in there?” Hank asked.

  “Not much. Gunman used a .38-caliber. We recovered ballistic evidence in the ground under the victim’s head and ran it through our ID system. It turned up negative, so it wasn’t used in a crime before as far as our system could tell. That doesn’t mean it wasn’t, it’s just not in our system.”

  “Anything else?”

  “We found some shell casings on the street as well as a handful in places around the buildings. We’ll detail that for you and include it.”

  “Any prints anywhere?”

  “It doesn’t look like it.” Hank heard the rustle of papers over the line. Jameson continued, “I’ll get the ballistics report up to you right away and our complete report as soon as we get it finished. Our guys were up most of the night on this one and they’re still hard at it.”

  “Let me know if you run across anything interesting in the meantime.”

  “Will do, Hank.”

  The shell casings seemed to confirm the witness’s story—the victim was chased around the building before getting killed between the two shops. Hank was interested in seeing the final report, which would detail exactly where those casings were found.

  He didn’t have a motive yet, but he presumed it was a revenge killing, or perhaps something to do with money. It usually was. There didn’t seem to be any hard proof to connect Michael Norton to the shooting, but certainly probable cause. Enough for a search warrant.

  Hank put together a written statement he would need for the warrant, explaining the crime Norton was suspected of committing, how it was carried out, and what they expected to find in the search. He stuffed it into a file folder and went to his reluctant partner’s desk. King sat with his chair tilted back on two legs, his feet on his cluttered desk. He crossed his arms and watched curiously as Hank approached.

  “We have enough for a search warrant,” Hank said. “Get off your lazy butt. Let’s go get the warrant and we’ll bring this guy in for questioning as well.”

  “Who’s the perp?”

  Hank dropped the folder in front of King. “Michael Norton.”

  King browsed the paperwork and whistled. “Looks convincing to me. That didn’t take you long.”

  “All you have to do is apply yourself, King. It’s not that hard. You should try it sometime.”

  King smirked. “I’m not so good at filling out reports, but I do my part.” He slid his feet off the desk. The wheels of the chair hit the floor with a clunk as he stood. “Let’s get him.”

  Chapter 9

  Tuesday, 10:16 a.m.

  JAKE AND ANNIE sat in the Firebird taking turns watching the merchandise through the binoculars. Several people had shown interest in the televisions. One was sold, and the clerk was careful to select the second carton in the stack.

  Jake sat with the seat pushed back, his hands behind his head, his eyes closed, while Annie took her stint at surveillance.

  “We might have a live one,” she said at last.

  Jake sat up and opened his eyes.

  Annie dropped her glasses in her lap, leaned forward in the seat, and pointed to a red Hyundai hatchback sitting outside the front door of the store. “A guy in a hoody got out of that vehicle a second ago. He left the car door open, opened the trunk, and went into the store. The driver’s waiting.”

  Jake grabbed his binoculars and trained them on the store. A hoody covered most of the man’s face as he stood in front of the stack of TVs. Jake glanced toward the checkouts. The clerks were busy with customers. They watched the man spin around casually, then he picked up the top two cartons, hoisted one onto each shoulder, and strode from the store without a look back.

  The man slid the cartons into the trunk, slammed the lid, jumped into the front seat, and the car sped away as the front door closed.

  Jake looked at Annie and grinned. “It’s definitely a live one.” He grabbed his iPhone and booted up the web-based map. A small red dot moved away from their current position. He handed the phone to Annie. “Let’s see where he goes. You can navigate.”

  “Keep well back,” Annie said. “We don’t want to be seen. All that matters is where he ends up.”

  Jake started the Firebird, backed from the slot, and zipped across the parking lot. As they approached the street, Annie kept her eyes on the map and pointed to the right. “He’s that way about two blocks.”

  Jake turned and followed,
making sure to keep a safe distance between him and the fleeing boosters. Jake lost track of him before long, but Annie guided him back on the right route. Five minutes later, after several turns, Annie held up the phone. The small red dot was at a standstill.

  “It stopped,” she said, and pointed. “Turn there.”

  Jake slowed and turned the wheel. “If we knew we were going to be following someone we could’ve brought your car. It would be invisible anywhere. This thing is as obvious as a pimple on the tip of your nose.”

  “You’re comparing your car to a zit?”

  “Okay, bad analogy.”

  “You’d better pull over here,” Annie said. “He stopped right up there.”

  Jake pulled to the curb and stopped, picked up the binoculars, and trained them down the street. The Hyundai was pulled into the driveway of a house half a block away.

  A few minutes later, a white van backed in behind the Hyundai.

  “They must’ve called their connection on the way,” Jake said. “It looks like they’re about to make an exchange.”

  Jake and Annie watched through the binoculars as a man jumped from the van and opened the side door. The guys from the car stepped out, opened the trunk, and a booster began to transfer the stolen televisions to the van.

  The other booster opened the garage door and spent the next few minutes carrying cartons and bags to the van.

  “There’s a whole treasure trove of stuff in there,” Annie said.

  “These guys are professionals. Those boxes probably hold anything from detergent, to cologne, to high-end electronics. And at ten cents on the dollar, a van full of stuff can add up pretty quickly.”

  The driver of the van inspected the contents of each container as it was loaded, jotting something in a notepad.

  “We should’ve brought the camera,” Jake said.

  “I didn’t know we’d get into this so soon or I would’ve.”

  “Doesn’t matter. As long as the tracker’s in there, we’ll get them.”

  “He’s counting out some bills,” Annie said. “That guy must know his prices pretty well.”

  “This is likely all he does. It’s his job to know prices.”

  The money was handed to one of the boosters. There was a lively discussion and the van driver peeled off a couple more bills and handed them over. He slammed the side door of the van, climbed in behind the steering wheel, and drove away.

  The red dot on the cell phone began to move.

  Jake sat the binoculars down and turned to Annie. “Phase three coming up.” He waited until the van was out of sight and then started the car and eased from the curb, careful to keep well back.

  “I got the address of the house,” Annie said, as they drove slowly past. She dug in her handbag for a notepad and jotted it down. “I’ll bet that house is fully furnished with boosted goods.”

  “Call Chris,” Jake said.

  “Good idea.” Annie got out her cell, called Cranston’s, and was put through to Chris immediately. She filled him in on their progress. “You can probably move those TVs away from the front of the store now. No use attracting any more flies.”

  Chris laughed and Annie promised to keep him informed.

  Annie had propped Jake’s cell phone on the dash and Jake kept his eye on the red dot. “It’s moving fast now,” he said.

  “He’s on the freeway. I hope he’s not leaving town.”

  “Doesn’t matter. The tracker uses cell towers. We can find him anywhere.”

  “He’s pulling off again,” Annie said. “Step it up a bit.”

  Jake followed the route the van took, and in five minutes, pulled off the freeway into an industrial area. The red dot indicated the van stopped two blocks away.

  “Should we drive by?” Jake asked.

  “Better idea. Stop back half a block and we’ll walk up and see what’s going on.”

  Jake pulled the Firebird over a hundred feet short of the suspected industrial unit and they got out, walked up the sidewalk, and approached the building.

  “He’s likely behind the unit,” Jake said. “They’ll be unloading through a back door.”

  Annie started ahead, moving toward the side of the building. “I want to make sure this is the right place before we call the police.”

  Jake followed her along the side of the unit to the back of the building. “This is it,” he whispered, glancing around the corner. The van was backed up to an overhead door and men unloaded the goods, carrying everything inside.

  “We got them,” Annie said, dialing Hank’s number. When the cop answered, she gave him a quick version of the story along with the address of the building as they hustled back toward the street.

  “Wow. Good job, guys, but I can’t come now. King and I are about to execute a search warrant. I’ll talk to dispatch and we’ll get some cars there immediately.”

  Annie hung up. “We’ve done our part. We might as well wait.” They crossed the street and sat under a tree. In a few minutes, a black van pulled up silently, spun into the lot, and an elite team dressed in full SWAT gear poured out and surrounded the building.

  The Lincolns crossed the street, keeping well back as they moved to the rear of the unit. Through the large overhead door they saw row after row of items, sorted and stacked on shelves.

  Half a dozen men were cuffed and loaded into a paddy wagon that had followed the team in.

  Jake put his arm around Annie as they watched the arrests. “Those guys will be going away for a while. Congratulations, my dear.”

  Annie smiled up at Jake. “Thanks, but you helped a little bit.”

  Chapter 10

  Tuesday, 10:49 a.m.

  HANK WAS ABLE TO obtain a warrant for the search of Michael Norton’s residence, and after contacting Sterling Auto Parts where Norton worked as a production line operator, Hank was informed he hadn’t clocked in to work that day. According to Sterling’s records, Norton had left the day before at 5:00 pm. That’s all they could tell him of the whereabouts of Michael Norton.

  There was no other option but to try Norton’s house in case he’d taken the day off, as well as execute the search warrant they had secured.

  According to the information Hank was able to obtain, Norton lived with his wife, Tammy, in an older part of the city. Hank followed a pair of cruisers down the narrow street. Mature maple trees lined both sides, their branches overhanging.

  The cruisers pulled in front of the Norton house, a small, weather-beaten bungalow sorely in need of roof repairs. The peeling, clapboard exterior could do with a fresh coat of paint, and the one-time flower bed had turned to a nest of weeds and wild grass.

  Hank parked behind the cruisers and the detectives followed two officers past the dark-blue 1996 Ford Probe parked in the driveway. They took the crumbling, concrete pathway to the front door. Two other officers cut around beside the building to the back yard. They would guard against any attempt at escape.

  Hank rang the doorbell and waited patiently. The door opened a moment later by a woman clad in a tattered, white housecoat. She brushed back her disheveled, midlength hair with one hand, holding her housecoat tightly around her throat with the other.

  She looked at Hank, then at the officers behind him, and frowned. “Yes?”

  Hank held up the warrant. “I have a search warrant for these premises. We’d also very much like to speak to Michael Norton.”

  Her frown deepened. “He … he’s not here.” Her eyes darted back and forth between the two detectives. “What’s going on?”

  Hank pushed gently at the door. “Please open the door, ma’am.”

  She stepped back, wrapped her arms around herself, and watched them fearfully.

  Hank motioned toward the officers, their hands on their weapons. “Search the house.”

  The officers and King moved forward and, room by room, the house was searched. Michael Norton was not home.

  Tammy Norton had moved into the living room and stood by a small, brick fire
place. Hank joined her. “Do you know where your husband is?” he asked.

  Mrs. Norton shook her head. “He didn’t come home last night. He went to work in the morning and that’s the last I saw of him.” She paused. “What’s this all about? What’s he done?”

  “Do you know where he might be?”

  Lines of worry showed on Tammy Norton’s face. “I … I don’t know. Can’t you tell me what’s going on?”

  “He’s wanted for questioning in a murder case, ma’am.”

  Mrs. Norton’s mouth dropped open and she sank into a chair and leaned forward. “Murder?” She rested her head in her hands and sat still a moment. Finally, she looked up, confusion and pleading on her face. “There must be some mistake?”

  “What is your, or your husband’s, relationship with Werner Shaft?” Hank asked.

  She sat back and frowned. “I hardly know him. He and my husband were in prison together a few years ago, and as far as I know, they haven’t seen each other since.”

  Hank sat on the edge of the couch and pulled out his notepad and pen. “Do either you or your husband own a gun?”

  “No, I sure don’t. And I don’t think my husband does anymore. After his time in prison, he settled down and works hard. He hasn’t been in any kind of trouble since.” She tilted her head slightly. “Are you sure you have the right man?”

  Hank disregarded her question and looked at his notes. “Does your husband drive a white Honda Accord?”

  She nodded.

  King came into the room. “There’s no car in the garage.” He looked at Mrs. Norton. “Does your husband own a plaid shirt?”

  She looked at King. “Yes, he’s fond of plaid. He owns several.”

  “The closet is full of them,” King said to Hank. “According to the witness, the killer wore a plaid shirt.”

  “A lot of people own plaid shirts,” Hank said. He made a note in his pad.

  King held up a small, green plastic box placed inside an evidence bag. “I found this in the basement. A box of .38-caliber cartridges. It’s empty.”