Cold Justice (17 page)

Matty’s eyes were wide, glued on Hank, as he listened
intently.

“It wasn’t suicide,” Annie said flatly.

Hank shrugged. “I think you’re right, Annie, but there’s
nothing substantial to prove otherwise. Forensics came to the same conclusion.”

“Vera Blackley’s body is enough evidence for me,” Annie
said. “That proves Mrs. Macy saw what she said she saw.”

“What did she see, Mom?” Matty asked.

Annie hesitated, and looked at Jake.

“She saw a man, um...” He looked at Hank. “What did she see
Hank?”

Matty asked, “Did she see someone get killed?”

Hank laughed and looked at Matty. “I’m afraid that’s exactly
what she saw.”

Matty’s eyes were wide.

“That’s enough of a lesson for tonight Matty. Go upstairs
and find something to do?” Annie spoke gently, but her voice showed she meant
business.

Matty tucked out his lower lip in a pretend pout and slipped
from the couch. “See you later, Uncle Hank.”

“See you Matty.” Hank watched him run from the room and
listened as he tramped up the steps to his bedroom.

Hank chuckled. “That’s a bright kid,” he said. “He may make
a good detective some day.”

“Not too soon, I hope,” Annie said.

“Now it seems we are right back where we started,” Jake
said, “Somebody killed Abigail Macy and Vera Blackley, and we have no idea who.”

“Maybe Anderson Blackley?” Annie asked.

“I don’t think Blackley is stupid enough to dump the body in
the bin where he works,” Jake said.

Hank shrugged. “Dumber things than that have been done
before. If he was in a rush to get rid of the body, that may have been the
first place he thought of. Perhaps he assumed the bin would be dumped and her
body gone forever.”

“Yeah, but he was out of town.”

“He could have driven home, killed her, and then driven back
again.” Annie said.

“Sure. He certainly could have,” Hank agreed. “We don’t know
the exact time of death, and after four days, it’s unlikely they will be able to
narrow it down very close. It could have happened in the middle of the night.”
He paused. “That being said, I don’t think Blackley did it.”

“So what’s the next step?” Jake asked.

“Hopefully forensics will come up with something from the
crime scene,” Hank said.

Thursday, August 18th, 7:15 PM

“CORNING,” a voice called sharply.

Hank glanced toward the sound of the voice. Captain Diego
was standing in the doorway of his office. He looked impatient.

As Hank stood and strode across the floor of the precinct,
Diego disappeared into his office. When Hank went in, Diego was slouched in his
high-back chair, behind his desk, his elbows on the arm rests, his fingertips
tickling his mustache.

“Yes, Captain?”

Diego dropped his hands and frowned. “Corning, what are you
waiting for? Get a warrant and search the Blackley house.”

Hank took a seat and leaned forward. “I don’t think he did
it, Captain.”

Diego sat forward and dropped his arms on the desk. He
stared at Hank. “Maybe not, but I want his house searched.” Diego sounded
irritated. He spoke firmly, “Now.”

Hank protested. “It just seems too pat to me,” he said. “That
wine bottle in the bag. And the glasses. And the body being found right behind
Proper Shoes.” He shook his head. “It wasn’t him. Nobody is that stupid.”

Diego had a file folder opened in front of him. The loose
papers rustled as he slapped his hand on the desk. “Listen Hank, this may be
your case, but you still do as I say.” He sounded irritated now.

Hank stared at Diego for a moment. “Are you really going to
make me do this?”

The answer was firm. “Just get it done.”

Hank sighed and stood. “Yes, Captain. I’ll get a warrant
right away.”

“And get his car too,” Diego added.

Hank nodded, left the office, and went back to his desk. He
didn’t like this approach, but he had no choice. Captain Diego wore the suit of
authority, not him.

It wasn’t hard to get the warrant. On the surface, there
seemed to be enough evidence against Blackley, and the judge issued the order
without hesitation.

He notified the forensics team to meet him there, and in a
few minutes, Hank rang Blackley’s doorbell.

“Good evening, Detective,” Blackley said, and then frowned
as he looked over Hank’s shoulder. The forensics team was unloading equipment
from their van and a couple of investigators were already coming up the
sidewalk. “What’s this?”

Hank held up the warrant. “Mr. Blackley, I have a warrant to
search your house.”

Blackley’s frown deepened for a moment. Then he sighed and
reluctantly stood back. “Do what you have to do.”

Hank turned and gave a nod, and the search commenced. Police
set up a cordon around the house. Two policewomen took boxes containing
equipment and evidence bags into a tent erected in the front yard as the
experts prepared to enter the house.

Blackley was escorted off of the premises, pacing back and
forth outside the yellow barrier.

Soon, the investigators streamed into the house in their
white coveralls. Nothing was left unscrutinized as the team made a rigorous
examination. Items were packed and carried out. A thorough fingerprinting was
done. Luminol tests, swabs, and dyes were used. The main floor, upstairs, the
basement, and the garage, were probed, inspected, and studied.

A tow truck arrived and hooked up to Blackley’s Subaru,
carting it away. It would soon be in the pound, where it would undergo a
painstaking inspection.

Half an hour later, Hank stood in the makeshift lab, trying
to stay out of the way of the technicians, when Rod Jameson approached him.

“Hank,” Jameson said. “We’re far from done here, but we have
enough now for you to make an arrest.”

“What do you have?”

“They found some wine glasses that look to be of the same
style as the ones found in the bin. There were traces of dried drops of wine
spattered in a few places throughout the living room. I think we’ll find it to
be consistent with the wine from the bottle we found in the bin.” He grinned. “And
here’s the kicker.”

Hank waited.

Jameson continued, “We found a hammer in the garage with
blood on it.”

Hank glanced through the opening of the tent. Blackley had
stopped pacing and was now sitting on the grass, his head in his hands. Hank
looked back at Jameson. “Any fingerprints?”

“Sure is. Blackley’s fingerprints.” He waved toward the
technicians who were hunched over, busy with microscopes, chemicals, and lab
tests. “They are still testing the blood residue on the hammer, but I think you’ll
find it belongs to Vera Blackley.”

“So,” Hank said slowly, “if that’s the case, then the murder
took place here.”

“No doubt about it, in my mind.”

“But still, nothing to show conclusively it was Blackley?”

Jameson shrugged. “What more do you want?”

Hank sighed. He knew that was enough. He would be lax if he
didn’t arrest Blackley under the weight of this evidence. It was all
circumstantial, sure, but it was enough. Besides, the Captain would demand it.
He had no choice.

“All right, thanks Rod,” Hank said, as he left the tent.

Blackley looked up as he approached, a worried look on his
face. “Are you guys almost done here?”

Hank looked down at Blackley. He didn’t want to do this. “Anderson
Blackley,” he said. “You are under arrest, charged with the murder of your
wife, Vera Blackley.”

Blackley’s mouth dropped open in disbelief. “What?”

“Stand up please,” Hank said.

Blackley stood up slowly. “It wasn’t me, Detective. I swear,
you got the wrong guy.”

“Put your hands behind your back.”

Blackley obeyed quietly. The cuffs clicked and rattled as
Hank secured them, and reluctantly read him his rights.

Chapter 28

Thursday, August 18th, 7:45 PM

SAMANTHA RIGGS had made up her mind what to do.

Her plan would ensure Dr. Boris Hoffman paid for his heinous
crime, and at the same time, she could turn circumstances to her advantage. A
financial advantage, that is.

She only had one unanswered question. How much should she
ask? How much would he be willing to pay to be sure the note would never be
found?

She didn’t want to be greedy. A thousand dollars? Or ten
thousand? Maybe more?

Or perhaps, she should be greedy. He deserved it. Abigail
Macy was dead now. Nothing would bring her back, so why not benefit from this?
Make him pay, and pay in full.

She pulled out the bottom drawer of the cupboard, and safely
hidden underneath the stack of magazines, she found Abby’s note where she had
left it.

She sat at the table, opened the envelope, and laid the note
out flat.

She read it once more, and then looked around her small
kitchen. It could use a coat of paint. The cupboard doors were worn and faded.
Her coffeemaker only worked half the time. She could use a new rug for her tiny
living room. And, of course, some new clothes. The list never ended. She
certainly could use the money.

She dug the rarely used phone book out of the cupboard and
dropped it on the table. The chair leg scraped as she sat down and pulled it in
closer. Hoffman. There were half a dozen of them listed. She thought he might
have had an unlisted number, but there it was, Dr. Boris Hoffman’s home number.

She sat back and stared at the book, and then at the phone
on the wall, feeling uncertain about her plan. Should she really go ahead with
it?

She jumped up, grabbed the phone receiver from its hook, and
stretched it to the table. She sat and quickly dialed the number in the book
before she could change her mind.

She held her breath.

One ring. Two. Three. Four. Maybe he’s not home!

“Hello?”

Samantha caught her breath. She had made up her mind,
thought she was ready, but...”

“Hello?” More impatient.

She exhaled quietly, then, “Is this Dr. Hoffman?”

“Yes.”

“Dr. Boris Hoffman?”

“Yes. What is it?”

“I want to talk to you about Abigail Macy.”

“Are you a reporter?”

“No... I am... was... a friend of hers.”

The line hissed softly, but was otherwise quiet.

Samantha closed her eyes and willed herself to continue. “Before
she died, she left a note. In the note she explained she had seen a murder, and
was afraid for her life.”

“I am aware of her death. It’s sad, but how does that
concern me?”

“In the note, she named you as the murderer, Dr. Hoffman.”

“That’s absurd,” he said, but did she detect a hint of
nervousness in his voice?

“I have the note,” she said. “No one else has seen it.”

He was quiet, then, “And?”

“And.” She paused. “No one else will ever see it, if...” She
paused again. She could hear him breathing. She continued, “If you are willing
to offer a suitable amount of money.” There, she had said it. She waited.

“Who is this?” he asked.

Time to get serious. “I’m the one who is going to hand the
note over to the police, if we can’t come to some arrangement.”

“Hypothetically,” she heard, “assuming you have such a note,
what would be a suitable amount of money?” Yes, she was certain now she heard
unease in his voice.

She blurted out, “Twenty-five thousand dollars.” She held
her breath. She hadn’t planned on asking for so much, but there it was.

Silence again.

“How do I know there is such a note?” he asked, still a
worried tone, but apprehensive.

Samantha thought quickly, and then asked, “Do you have a
cell phone? I’ll send a picture of it to your phone.”

He paused, and then gave her a number. He repeated it to be
sure.

She knew she had him now. “Hold on,” she said.

She jumped up and grabbed the cell phone from her handbag on
the counter, and laying the note out flat, she snapped a picture, being careful
to get the whole page. Then she hit the ‘Share’ icon, and entered the number he
had given her. She checked the number to make sure her shaking hands hadn’t
dialed wrong, and then touched ‘Send’.

The photo went. She waited, breathing heavily. What had she
gotten herself into?

“I have it,” she finally heard from the phone.

“Did you read it?”

“Yes,” he said quietly.

“Do you want the note?” she asked.

His voice was low and lifeless. “I will pay you.”

Her heart thumped.

He continued, “If you come here, I can have the money ready
this evening.”

She thought a moment. “I will meet you somewhere else.”

He sighed unevenly. “Where?”

“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.