Cold Justice (27 page)

“Yes, please.” Annie hurriedly dug the notepad from her
handbag and wrote the number. “Thank you. You’ve been very helpful.”

She hit the ‘Hang Up’ icon and shook her head. She hadn’t
thought that through well enough before she called. She laughed as she pictured
the receptionist sitting at her desk, staring at the phone, suddenly realizing
something was wrong.

She booted up the Google Maps app on her cell, and punched
in the address. The helpful map showed Hoffman’s house was just on the
outskirts of Richmond Hill, toward the north. She was familiar with the area,
and the variety of large homes, on large lots, along that road.

At least now, she knew where Hoffman lived, and she had his
phone number, if necessary. Now it’s time to put the next step of her plan into
place.

Friday, August 19th, 1:45 PM

DR. BORIS HOFFMAN had been worried all day. He’d had a bit
too much Scotch whisky, and was now sipping a cup of steaming coffee, trying to
clear his tangled brain.

He had cancelled his appointments for the day. There were
only two clients anyway, so he decided to stay home and relax. He didn’t feel
much like listening to wackos today; he had too much on his mind.

He was concerned the girl that his idiot nephew had killed
would come back from the grave and haunt him by means of another copy of the
note. He was somewhat consoled by the knowledge if there had indeed been
another copy in her possession, the police would have found it and knocked his
door down by now.

That, at least, was somewhat of a relief, but he also knew
the cops were pretty thorough, and there might be something else to connect
Samantha Riggs back to him. That idiot, Tommy, had made a mess, and he didn’t
know if there was anything he could do to clean it up.

His thoughts disintegrated as he heard his cell phone buzz.
He picked it up. It was the idiot himself. What does he want this time?

“What is it?” he said into the phone.

“We may have trouble.”

Hoffman cursed. “What kind of trouble?”

“Some guy is snooping around my place.”

“And?” Hoffman asked impatiently.

“He told me they have a witness that saw me kill the girl.”

Hoffman clenched his teeth and cursed again. He wanted to
strangle Tommy. He paced a moment, trying to think. Finally, he said, “Listen
idiot, if the cops had a witness, they would have been there by now.”

“Maybe they’re waiting.”

“Waiting for what?”

“I don’t know. Just waiting.”

“Tommy, you’re more of an idiot than I thought. Cops don’t
wait around. They’d be on you like a dog in heat.”

“I don’t know, but this is getting a bit hairy.”

“Calm down,” Hoffman said. “You’re worrying about nothing.”

“Uncle?”

Hoffman sighed. “What is it?”

“I think you could give me a bit more money. Two thou ain’t
enough, and I may have to get out of town.”

“Running away is not going to help. That’s only going to
make you look guilty. And they would still track you down.”

“Well, I need more money, anyway.”

“No more money.”

The line was quiet. Finally, Tommy said quietly, “I still
have the note.”

“I told you to destroy it,” Hoffman yelled.

“Yeah, I know, but I read it, and it seems like it’s worth
more money.”

Hoffman raised his voice even higher. “No more money. Just
bring me the note.”

“Listen, Dear Uncle Boris, if I go down for this, then you
go down too.” He paused. “Unless I get more money.”

Hoffman sighed. “How much more?”

“I want five grand. That’s all.”

“Oh, that’s all, is it?”

“It’s worth it.”

“All right. Bring it over here and you’ll get your money.”

Hoffman felt like a fool for trusting that idiot. Now he was
being blackmailed with a letter that was supposed to have been destroyed.

“I’ll be there this afternoon,” Tommy said. “Just like we
planned.”

Hoffman clicked off his phone, dropped it onto his desk, and
slumped into his chair, shaking his head.

He cursed a moment and then leaned down and opened the
bottom drawer of the desk, dug around at the back, and removed something
wrapped in a soft linen napkin. He set it carefully on his desk, unfurled the
cloth, and stared at his Glock pistol.

He may have to use this. If Tommy didn’t give him the note
this time, he would threaten him with it, or worse. Blow his brains out. The
idiot deserved it.

He picked up the gun and slipped the 10-round cartridge from
the chamber. It was full. He rammed the cartridge back in, and snapped the MIC
holster from the gun, setting the pistol back on the desk. He stood and
fastened the cord of the holster to his belt, snapped the gun in and slipped it
behind the buckle, securely in place against his skin. He dropped his shirt
over the weapon and sat down. It felt comfortable, and made him feel safe.

He flipped open the cigar box and selected a Cuban, clipped
the end, and lit it. The warm smoke relaxed him, calmed him down. He laid his
head back and closed his eyes, tasting the sweet earthiness in his mouth.

Chapter 47

Friday, August 19th, 1:54 PM

JAKE WALKED the four blocks back to the street where
Salamander’s apartment was located, slipped down the narrow driveway beside the
building, and around behind.

It led into a parking area where three or four cars were
jammed into the narrow spaces. Tommy had sped away from here, so his bike must
have been parked back here somewhere, and he had retrieved it before taking
off.

He knew in this kind of neighborhood, Tommy would chain his
bike up securely. Jake looked around for a likely spot. The back door of the
building had a small platform with a solid iron railing on one side. He leaned
down and examined the railing. Otherwise covered with rust, there were some
scratches where a chain had dug into the metal.

He stood and stepped onto the platform. The back door was
unlocked and it squealed as it scraped against the frame and swung open. He
took the back stairs to the second floor and moved down the hallway toward the
front of the building. He stopped in front of 201, twisted the knob, and the
door sprang open.

The smell of a freshly smoked cigarette hung in the air. The
television was back on, and the girl appeared to have not moved. He shut the
door quietly, crossed the room and flicked off the TV. He turned and looked at
her as she stared forward silently.

He kicked a small footstool over in front of her and sat
down, leaning forward, facing her. She sat quietly, her hands in her lap, only
her eyes moving briefly as they followed him.

“What’s your name?” he asked.

She blinked. “Rachel,” she answered, in a husky voice,
almost a whisper.

“I’m Jake,” he said, as he studied her. She was quite
attractive at one time. Maybe could be again, but not until she wanted to get
out of this life and make something of herself.

“Do you know where Tommy would have gone to?”

As she shook her head, a long strand of blond fell forward
and covered one eye. She reached up unconsciously and brushed it back into the
tangled muddle on top of her head. She needed a hairbrush.

“Was he home yesterday evening?”

Instead of answering, she reached for a pack of cigarettes on
a stand beside her and dumped one out, placing it between her lips. She fiddled
with the lighter for a moment, and couldn’t get it to work. Jake took it gently
from her, flicked it, and held it to the smoke. She puffed, inhaled deeply, and
blew the smoke out the side of her mouth.

“Thanks,” she said.

Jake dropped the lighter back on the stand and repeated. “Was
Tommy home yesterday evening?”

“She took another puff, blowing the smoke at him. “He went
out.”

“Do you know where he went?”

She shrugged. “He doesn’t tell me. He just goes.”

“What time did he leave?”

Her eyes moved up for a moment, and then back at Jake. “Maybe
eight or nine.”

“Do you know what time he got home?”

“Late.”

“How late?”

She shrugged again. “I was sleeping,” she said, as she took
another puff.

Jake sat back and studied her. Her eyes followed him,
unafraid.

“Rachel, do you know if Tommy has ever hurt anyone?”

“Maybe.”

“Does he ever hurt you?”

She looked away. “Sometimes. Not much.”

He leaned forward, touched her cheek gently, moving her face
back toward him. She didn’t pull away or flinch at his touch.

“Why do you stay with him?” he asked.

Her eyes seemed to grow sad. “Nowhere else to go.” She
turned her head briefly and dropped her cigarette in the ashtray. The smoke
curled up and was caught in the slight breeze from the open window.

He reached out and took her hand. She didn’t protest. “Rachel,
you could leave if you wanted to. Are you and Tommy married?”

She shook her head. “No, we’re not married. Never.”

“Do you love him?”

She frowned slightly. “Not really.”

“If Tommy never comes home again, what will you do?”

She shrugged one shoulder. “Dunno.”

“Tommy’s a bad man,” Jake said, observing her.

She nodded slowly. “I know,” she said sadly.

“He kills people.”

“Maybe. I don’t know.”

“Believe me, he does.” Jake dropped her hand back in her lap
and sat back. She seemed calm and relaxed. “Rachel, do you trust me?” he asked.

As she nodded, Jake thought he saw a slight smile touch her
lips, making her look a little more attractive. He wasn’t sure why she would
trust him. He was just a guy who came into her home uninvited, and started
asking her a bunch of questions. Perhaps he looked trustworthy. He didn’t know.

“Do you mind if I wait here until Tommy gets back?”

“I don’t care.”

“Do you mind if I look around the apartment?”

“Ok.”

Jake patted her leg. “Thanks.” He stood, turned around and
flicked the television back on, turning the volume down slightly.

He wasn’t looking for anything in particular, just maybe
snoop around a bit, get a feel for what Tommy was all about, and wait until he
returned.

He went down the hall to the bedroom. The window leading to
the fire escape was still open, but the air smelled stale and unclean.

He poked his head out the window and took a deep breath. He
swung around as he heard a noise behind him. Rachel was in the doorway, leaning
against the frame, watching him.

“Where’s Tommy’s stuff?” he asked.

She pointed to a rickety dresser by the unmade bed.

“Do you mind if I take a look?”

“I don’t mind.”

Jake went to the dresser and pulled the top handle. Wood
squeaked against wood as he slid the drawer open and peered inside. He moved
around some socks and felt something hard. He pulled it forward. It was a long
knife tucked inside a sheath. He slipped it out and tested the edge against his
thumb. Razor sharp. He put it back in its case and replaced it in the drawer.

He found a plastic box, which he brought out. Remington
pistol and revolver cartridges. He turned to Rachel and held them up. “Does he
have a gun?”

She nodded. “Yes.”

“Do you know where he keeps it?”

She shook her head. “Sometimes he carries it, but not
always. Sorry, I don’t know where it is.”

Jake smiled. “That’s ok.” He dumped the bullets back in the
drawer and squeaked it shut.

She stepped back into the hallway as he left the bedroom and
went to the kitchen. The room was relatively clean. Jake assumed this was
Rachel’s territory.

She was behind him. “Are you hungry, Jake?”

He hesitated. He was always hungry, but he wasn’t sure what
to say.

“I can make you some eggs or something,” she said. “Maybe a
sandwich.”

Jake smiled. “That’s ok. But I would like a cup of coffee if
you have some?”

She found a kettle beside the fridge, filled it, plugged it
in, and waited for the water to boil. It was instant coffee, but it tasted
fine.

He sat at the table and sipped it, hoping Tommy would
return.

Chapter 48

Friday, August 19th, 2:00 PM

CAPTAIN ALANO DIEGO had been under pressure from the hungry
media, starving for information. The two murders that had recently taken place
were making headlines, and many were demanding a resolution.

He had decided to hold a news conference. He preferred it
when Hank stepped up and handled the press, but he was on another case right
now and wasn’t available.

He pushed the papers on his desk aside, stood and went to
the small mirror by the doorway of his office. He brushed his hand through his
hair, flattened his mustache, and straightened his tie, adjusting the gold clip
that pinned it to his shirt.

The Crown Attorney and the Chief of Police were waiting for
him in the outer office. They stood and joined Diego, walked to the exit door,
and stepped out into the warm air.

Out on the street, a cop directed traffic, the road now
being reduced to one lane as cars and news vans lined both sides. Drivers
slowed and rubbernecked until the officer impatiently blew his whistle, and
they sped up again.

A small podium had been set up at the bottom of the precinct
steps leading to a courtyard between the steps and the sidewalk. Reporters were
bustling about. Cameras were ready to snap pictures, make video, and capture
the occasion. Notepads were poised, recorders were set, and the bank of
microphones fastened to the podium was waiting, tuned and tested.

Lisa Krunk was front and center, her sidekick close by, the
camera propped on his shoulder, finger on the trigger, loaded and ready to
shoot the action.