Cold Justice (24 page)

“The wine splatters in the house?”

Shorn shrugged. “They could have been there for a while.
They would have a hard time proving they weren’t. And even it they could, it
wouldn’t indicate you were involved.”

“So what’s our next step,” Blackley asked.

“We get your car and you go home. Or back to work, or
wherever you want.” Shorn smiled. “You’re a free man now.”

“But I still want to find out who killed Vera.”

“That’s up to the police now.”

“Or the Lincolns.”

Shorn nodded. “You better let them know you’re out.”

Blackley found his cell and dialed. Annie answered.

“Annie, it’s Anderson Blackley. They let me out.” He couldn’t
hold back the overwhelming elation in his voice as he filled her in on the
events, and explained why they had released him.

“Wow! That’s great news,” Annie said. “I’d like to come and
see you. What time will you be home?”

Blackley looked at his watch. “I just have to pick up my
car. I should be home by one, or shortly after.”

“See you then,” Annie said.

He stuffed the phone back in his pocket and turned to Shorn,
“Let’s get out of here,” he said.

Friday, August 19th, 12:03 AM

HANK CRUISED slowly down Albert Street. Philip Macy sat in
the passenger seat, eyeing the building numbers.

“There it is,” Philip said, as he pointed to an ugly brick
and concrete apartment building.

Hank found a parking spot across the street from number 33.
He shut down the engine, checked his service weapon, and slipped the keys from
the ignition. “Let’s go, Mr. Macy,” he said, pushing his door open.

Philip turned to him. “Please, call me Philip.”

Hank grinned. “Ok, and you can call me Hank,” he said as he
stepped from the vehicle. Philip climbed out and they walked across the street
to the building.

Hank stepped up to the front door and held it open for an
elderly woman coming out, struggling to open it. She mumbled thanks, and worked
her cane, puffing as she labored down the path to the sidewalk.

They stepped inside and looked at a hand-written sign on the
wall. ‘J. Busby, Superintendent, Apt.101’. They went down a short hallway,
stopped in front of the first door and rang the bell.

The door popped open a few inches, clunking when it reached
the length of the security chain. A thin man peeked through the crack. He was
probably mid-sixties, with a gray mustache and a few days of stubble on his
gaunt face.

Hank showed his badge. “Mr. Busby?”

“Yup.”

“Can I speak to you a moment?”

“What’s this about?”

Hank frowned. “Will you open the door?”

The man sighed, the door slammed, the chain rattled, and the
door swung open again.

Hank tucked his badge away and said, “I’m Detective Hank
Corning. I need to speak to you about Samantha Riggs.”

The man stared and then looked inquisitively at Philip. “Who’s
this?”

“This is my... associate, Philip Macy.”

The guy looked them over carefully, and finally asked, “What
can I do for you?”

Hank said, “Unfortunately, Miss Riggs’ body was found this
morning. She had been murdered, and we would like to see her apartment. Could
you open it up for us, please?”

“Samantha? Dead?”

Hank nodded.

Busby shook his head slowly and said, “She was always a good
tenant. Pays on time. Never caused no problems.” He paused, then, “That’s a
real shame.”

Hank thought he didn’t appear to be all that upset, and was probably
worried more about finding a new tenant.

“Just a minute,” Busby said, as he turned and went into
another room. He appeared a moment later with a set of keys jingling and
dangling from his hand. He put on a pair of slippers, and stepped through the
doorway, closing the door behind him. He selected a key from his ring and
locked it, tested the lock, and said, “This way.” He ambled down the hallway to
a set up stairs and pointed. “202. Up there.”

Busby moved slowly, one step at a time, holding tightly to
the railing. They followed him to the second floor and through another door
into a hallway. 202 was the second apartment down, and Busby fiddled with the
keys, found one he liked, and unlocked the door. “Just lock up when you leave,”
he said, as he toddled away.

As soon as Hank stepped into the apartment, though not in
total disarray, it was obvious someone other than Miss Riggs had recently been
here. And it appeared they had been searching for something.

Philip followed Hank into the kitchen. A couple of drawers
were hanging open, and their contents rearranged. Hank browsed through them as
Philip leaned against the wall watching.

He inspected the rest of the cupboards and drawers, peeked
in the fridge, and rummaged through a basket of odds and ends on the
countertop. There were a couple of unwashed dishes in the sink. Everything was
otherwise normal.

The living room looked untouched. A TV sat blackly in one
corner, propped up on a wooden box. An air conditioner was tucked into a
window, humming, kicking out cool air. Hank shut it off. A vase of faded
flowers sat on a coffee table, the water sucked up and dried away.

A cabinet had a couple of small drawers, containing a few
photos and other keepsakes. He inspected them and found nothing out of the
ordinary. He tucked a clear photo of Samantha in his breast pocket.

He lifted the cushions on the couch, browsed through the
CDs, and flipped through a bridal magazine on a small table beside the lazy
chair.

Hank glanced at Philip. “Was Samantha getting married?”

Philip shook his head. “No. She didn’t even have a
boyfriend, as far as I know.”

Philip picked up a framed photo from the coffee table. Hank
took a peek at it. It was a photo of Samantha and Abby, smiling at the camera.
It appeared to have been taken in the office. Philip sighed softly and set it
back on the stand.

“Why don’t you keep that?” Hank suggested.

“Are you sure it’s all right?”

Hank shrugged. “I won’t tell anyone.”

Philip looked at the photo again. “Ok,” he said, as he
picked it up again.

Hank took a last look around and then went into the bathroom
off the kitchen. He knelt down and opened the cupboard doors under the sink,
and then stood, flipped open the medicine cabinet and studied the contents.
Nothing out of place.

He noticed the lid for the toilet tank was slightly awry. He
lifted it, looked inside, and set the lid back.

Beside the bathroom, Hank saw what was obviously Samantha’s
bedroom. As he stepped inside and looked around, the bed immediately caught his
eye. The comforter that was falling down so neatly all around had been caught,
in one spot, between the mattress and the box spring. It appeared the mattress
may have been lifted, and dropped carelessly back into place. He knelt down and
raised the mattress, peeking under. There was nothing of interest there.

The drawers of the nightstand were partially open. Hank
peered inside, rummaged around, and found nothing unusual. The clock on top of
the stand cast a faint red glow. A small lamp sat further back, a John Grisham
novel beside it, a bookmark pushed in halfway. There was a little wooden box on
the stand as well. Hank picked it up, opened it, and saw a few pair of earrings
and some other costume jewelry. He snapped it shut and set it back.

The closet door was open. He explored the clothes on the
rack. Sweaters, dresses, skirts, a gown or two. There was a row of shoes on the
floor. Dress shoes, running shoes, high heels, and low heels. Looking up, he
saw a shoebox on the top shelf. He retrieved it and popped it open. Photos, a
bundle of letters, a few foreign coins. He browsed the letters briefly and flipped
through the photos. Among them, there were a couple more of Abby, and another
one of Abby and Samantha. He slipped them from the pack and handed them to
Philip.

There was a small dresser containing three drawers. Hank
opened each drawer and went through its contents. Mostly underwear, socks,
t-shirts. Nothing of interest.

He took a final glance around and turned to Philip. “There
doesn’t seem to be anything unusual here. Someone has searched this place
though. I wonder what they were looking for. Any ideas?”

“Not a clue,” Philip said.

“It may be nothing, but we are assuming whoever killed
Samantha knew who had... knew about what happened to Abby, and that’s why she
was targeted too.”

“Abby may have told her something?”

“Perhaps.” Hank frowned. “But we may never know if she did
or not.”

Philip dabbed at his eyes with the back of his hand and
sighed deeply.

“Let’s go,” Hank said. “I want to drop by the Lincoln’s, and
then I’ll take you back to work.”

Chapter 42

Friday, August 19th, 12:15 AM

ANNIE SET A TRAY with four glasses and a cold pitcher of
fresh lemonade, dripping with moisture, on the deck table. The mound of ice
crackled and popped as it met the early afternoon heat. The sun was scorching,
but the back of the house cast a shade over the deck. She snuggled into one of
the chairs and sat back.

Hank had called to say he was dropping by for a few minutes
and bringing Philip Macy with him. She had told him to come around the side of
the house. They would be on the back deck.

She looked over at Jake. He was scratching his head and
frowning at some of Annie’s notes.

“See anything interesting there?” she asked.

He looked up. “Not really, but I’ve been thinking, and it
seems to me, since the murder of Samantha was in such a public place, there might
be somebody around that saw a woman in a red hat and red jacket.”

“You may be right,” Annie said. “But how are you going to
find them?”

“I thought I might hit the streets. Ask around the park. Who
knows what might turn up?”

“It’s a big park, and a lot of people go through that place
every day. That could be a big job.”

Jake shrugged. “Maybe. Either way, it won’t hurt. I can’t
think of anything else right now.” He paused. “Somebody had to have seen her at
one point or another, but finding that someone, that may be the impossible
task.”

“But if you do find someone, that doesn’t mean they saw the
murder,” Annie told him.

“Yeah, I know,” Jake said. “But I gotta try.”

Annie looked vacantly across the back yard and nodded. She
hoped something would break soon, before anyone else got hurt, or worse...
murdered.

“Hello,” she heard a shout. Hank was coming across the back
of the house. Philip Macy was with him, looking tired and glum.

“Sit down. Have a glass of lemonade,” Annie said, as Hank
and Philip climbed the stairs to the deck. They took a seat as she filled four
glasses and handed them around.

“Ah, that’s good,” Hank said, as he took a gulp.

Annie sat and propped her arms on the rests, holding her
drink with both hands. She looked at Philip, sitting forward, quietly sipping
his refreshment. “So, what brings you here, Philip?”

He gave a faint smile. “I just couldn’t stay in the office
any more. I couldn’t keep my mind on my work, and then when Hank came and told
me about Samantha...” He paused and sighed. “It was pretty rough, and he asked
if I wanted to go with him to her apartment.” He shrugged. “And here I am.”

“We just came from there,” Hank said, taking another sip.

“Find anything?” Jake asked. He was cooling his forehead
with the side of the frosty glass.

“I can’t say I did. Her apartment had been searched before
we got there. That much was obvious.” He looked at Philip. “But we didn’t find
anything out of place. I don’t know what I was looking for, but whatever it
was, I didn’t find it.” He slipped the photo of Samantha from his pocket and
handed it to Jake. “I brought this for you, anyway.”

Jake took the photo, glanced at it and stuffed it into his
pocket.

“Did you hear about Blackley?” Annie asked Hank.

Hank looked at her, a question on his face.

“They let him go.”

Hank frowned. “What? I mean, that’s good news, but why am I
the last to know?”

“It just happened. He called me. Apparently, the crown
withdrew the charges for lack of evidence. I’m sure they’ll let you know soon.”

“Diego won’t like that,” Hank said. “He had everything
wrapped up nice and neatly.”

“So what does this all mean?” Philip asked. “Is this going
to help find Abby’s killer?”

“Well,” Hank said. “It means whoever killed Vera Blackley is
still out there, and I think if we find him, then we’ll have Samantha’s killer,
the same person who killed your wife.” He paused. “At least, that’s our theory.
And, it’s the only one that makes sense.”

“I know it’s the right theory,” Jake put in.

Annie looked at her watch. “I’m dropping over to see Mr.
Blackley in a few minutes. He should be home after one o’clock.”

“And I’m going to the park,” Jake said. “See if I can find
anybody who saw something.”

Hank grinned. “And I’m going to drop Philip home, and then I’ll
be out of touch for the rest of the day. We’re trying to set up a sting
downtown. See if we can catch the guys doing all the robberies.” His grin
faded, and he glanced at Philip. “Sorry I can’t do anything else on this right
now Philip, but until the captain reopens this case...”

“I understand,” Philip said.

Hank continued, “But the good news is, when he reopens Vera’s
case, then that’s as good as if he reopens your wife’s case, because we’re
looking for the same guy.”

Philip nodded.

“Right now, there are a couple of other detectives looking
into the murder of Samantha, and I’ll be on it hot and heavy first thing
tomorrow,” Hank said. “It’s just that I have this thing right now that’s been
planned for a while.” He slugged back the rest of his drink and set the glass
on the table.