Cold Justice (18 page)

“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.

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 frequent 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.”

Annie smiled. “It’s been a pleasure to talk to you as well.”
She pulled a ten-dollar bill from her handbag and dropped it on the bar. “I’ll
see you later, Meg,” she said, as she stood.

“Look forward to it, honey,” Meg replied.