Fugitive Justice (8 page)

He had to get somewhere safe and think this whole thing through. He’d been framed for attempted murder, possibly even murder, and with his best friend against him, there were very few people he could turn to.

First, he needed some clothes and some form of transportation. Just about anything would be suitable—a bicycle, a motorcycle, or a car.

He had no money and no phone. He had to live on the streets, at least for the time being, but he knew exactly where to go.

Homeless by choice for reasons he hadn’t cared to share, his friend Sammy Fisher was the obvious guy to turn to. Sammy knew the streets inside and out, sharing a kinship with those who called cardboard boxes and alleyways their homes. The quaint but lovable man had been helpful to Lincoln Investigations in the past, and at the very least, Sammy would help him get something to wear.

Jake continued along Front Street, turning his head away whenever he met a pedestrian or when a vehicle breezed by. He was in the open now, and he was ready to run should a cop happen to drive by and get the notion to stop and question him.

A few minutes later, he neared the Richmond River overpass. He hopped a low barrier and faced a steep embankment. A hundred feet below, the river flowed south toward Lake Ontario. It was a pleasant spot, and it was Sammy’s backyard.

Jake eased down twenty feet, ducked under the overpass, and smiled when he saw the place where Sammy had carved out his niche. Directly under the overhead street, up where the bank touched the underside of the concrete and steel overpass, what Sammy called his “castle” was hidden from anyone who might chance to wander nearby.

The homeless man had dug out a ten-by-ten cave, boarded up the walls with whatever he could find, and covered the front with a soil-stained canvas. It was invisible to all except those who knew of its existence. Insulated from the wind and the weather, it could be heated by a candle in the winter, and was cooled in the summer by the earth surrounding it.

Jake pulled back the canvas and peered inside. A pot or two hung from the ceiling, a thick blanket lay on a bed of cardboard, and the rest of Sammy’s meager possessions occupied a small shelf unit. But Sammy wasn’t there.

Without a watch, Jake was hampered, but the sun told him it was nearing midafternoon. He knew Sammy did his scrounging in the morning, enjoyed whatever he could find for lunch in a park somewhere nearby, then returned to his castle for a quick afternoon nap. He should be along anytime.

Jake dropped the canvas flap back into place and climbed down the bank to the river. He sat down on a rock and waited.

He had to come up with a plan. One thing was obvious—if Hank had intentions to arrest him, then there must be more evidence than Jake knew about. What else had Hank found at the crime scene that would force him to take such extreme measures?

Perhaps the neighbor. There was no doubt she’d seen him, and he had been carrying the pistol at the time. He’d have gunshot residue on his clothes. But he’d explained all that to Hank.

As he contemplated the events of that morning, playing them back in his mind, a sudden realization hit him. Merrilla Overstone had been delirious with pain when he’d found her, and she’d mistaken him for the shooter. If she’d told the police the same thing, along with the rest of the evidence, her allegation would be severely damaging to his story.

He stood, brushing his thoughts aside as a man moved toward him from a hundred feet away.

It was Sammy, no doubt.

A scruffy man approached, a wide grin splitting his heavily bearded face. He stopped, pulled off his faded baseball cap, and ran a hand through his mop of dark hair.

“It’s good to see you, Detective Jake,” Sammy said, plopping his cap back on and squinting through one eye. “What brings you to my humble abode?”

Jake shook his hand. “I need your help, Sammy.”

“Have a chair,” Sammy said, pointing to the rock.

Jake sat back down. Sammy kicked off his ragged running shoes and sat on the grass. He leaned back, supporting himself with his arms, and looked at Jake through intelligent blue eyes.

“I’m in a jam,” Jake said. He told Sammy some of the details of his predicament. “I have no money, I can’t go home, and I need some clothes before I can work this out.”

“Boy, you sure got yourself in a mix-up. I’ll be overjoyed to do whatever I can,” Sammy said. “But what about Detective Annie? Can’t she do something?”

Jake shrugged. “I have no phone, and I haven’t been able to talk to her since this morning. I have no idea what’s going on with her.”

The tip of Sammy’s beard poked against his once-white t-shirt as he talked. “Clothes are no problem, Jake. The folks at Samaritan Street Mission take good care of us when we can’t take care of ourselves. Food, clothes, even a warm bed in the winter.” He gave Jake the once-over and grinned. “I can pop over there and see if they have any extra-extra-large stuff that’ll fit you.”

“That’d be great, Sammy. I’d go myself, but they know me there, and I have to keep a low profile.”

“No problem. And I bet Mrs. Pew will lend me a bike from the mission’s thrift shop. They usually have one or two in decent condition.” He tugged at his beard a moment. “Can’t help you with a cell phone, though. And I got no money. I could always panhandle for an hour or two and scrounge you up a few dollars if you’d like.”

“That would be great, but forget the money,” Jake said. “Just the clothes and a bike are good. And I’ll make it up to you, Sammy.”

“No, you won’t. I know for a fact you and Annie give money to the mission every month, and what you do for them, you do for me and others less fortunate than me.” He gave Jake a mock scowl. “So you won’t mention that again.”

Jake grinned. “Duly noted.”

“Then let me get on my way, and I’ll be back quicker than a jackrabbit.”

“There’s one more thing, Sammy.”

“Sure.”

“The guy who shot Mrs. Overstone looked to me like a good-for-nothing hood. Probably known among some of the seedier elements of the city.” Jake paused and shrugged. “You helped me dig up the hiding place of a jailbird before. I thought maybe you might be able to help again this time.”

“We’ll talk about that when I get back,” Sammy said. “I got people everywhere. Some smart, some not so smart, but if I have something to go on and ask enough questions, we might be able to track him down.”

“I really appreciate this, Sammy.”

“Well, it’s not just for you. It’s for me and mine as well. Anytime you rid the streets of lowlife scumbags, it makes it safer for all of us.” Sammy stood. “Just relax and don’t worry. I got your back.” He turned and strode up the riverbank.

Jake watched until his friend disappeared from view. Hank knew Sammy from a past case, and he hoped the cop wouldn’t think of looking him up.

But he knew Hank had a job to do; finding Jake was his duty. Given their friendship, he prayed Hank would be a little less eager to do that task in a timely manner, allowing Jake some freedom to track down the real criminal.

As soon as Sammy came back, he had to find a way to contact Annie. He had no doubt his wife would be under scrutiny from the police, and he didn’t want to compromise her freedom in any way.

That was the last thing either one of them could afford to have happen.

Chapter 13

Tuesday, 3:12 p.m.

HANK POPPED THE LID off the container of physical evidence gathered at the scene of the shooting of Merrilla Overstone. He sat at his desk and tipped the box toward him, studying the articles it contained.

Along with Jake’s personal effects and Merrilla’s cell phone, the items of most interest to him were the pistol and the bullet it had fired. He took the bag containing the weapon from the box and turned it over in his hands.

The gun was a .22-caliber semiautomatic Beretta, one of their cheaper models, but readily available on the streets at double or triple its retail value. If you had enough money and the desire to acquire them, weapons of all kinds could easily be obtained on the black market.

Hank pulled a file folder toward him and browsed through the information obtained from the hospital via an earlier phone call. Preliminary data indicated Mrs. Overstone had suffered a penetrating chest wound, and the bullet had lodged in her chest wall. According to word Hank had gotten, surgery to remove the bullet had been successful, and though the victim had suffered severe trauma, she’d been given a good chance of survival.

Hank reached into the box and removed an evidence bag containing the bullet extracted from the victim. He hadn’t been surprised when the ballistics report had confirmed the weapon used to kill the woman at the bank was the same one used to shoot Merrilla Overstone.

Though they were separate incidents, the shooting of Mrs. Overstone and the bank robbery were not only related, they were bound together by a single item—a weapon.

If Jake had indeed robbed the Commerce Bank, there was no doubt he was also responsible for the attempted murder of Mrs. Overstone.

Hank was struggling to come up with a motive. The shooting of Merrilla Overstone was a direct consequence of the bank robbery, that much seemed certain, but what’d been Jake’s motive for robbing the bank?

Jake wasn’t stupid. Surely he knew there wouldn’t be much money had by robbing a bank, and he had enough knowledge of law enforcement never to attempt such a foolhardy scheme. And he and Annie certainly didn’t need the small amount of money that’d been taken.

And yet, the stack of hundred-dollar bills had been found in a tool chest in Jake’s garage. The serial numbers had been compared to the bank’s records, and they matched.

Everything pointed toward Jake being the perpetrator of both crimes, and thus far, there was nothing to confirm his story and prove his innocence.

The only indication Jake’s account might be true was the presence of Merrilla Overstone’s fingerprints on the envelope of money. Hank quickly dismissed it as convincing proof. Jake could’ve handed the envelope to Merrilla before he’d shot her, then taken it back. Certainly that’s what the prosecutor would argue in court.

He looked up as Detective King approached his desk and sat on the edge of the guest chair.

“I’ve confirmed Niles Overstone’s at the Richmond Hill General Hospital,” King said. “He went there as soon as he heard about his wife, and he hasn’t left since. He’s expecting us.”

Hank laid the weapon and bullet back in the evidence box, put the lid on, and stood. “Let’s go, then.” He picked up his briefcase and turned to King. “I’m very interested in what Mr. Overstone has to say.”

When they reached the hospital, they made their way through the silent halls and took the elevator to the third floor. They found Niles Overstone alone in a small waiting room not far from the intensive care unit. The man looked beaten down, lines of worry etched on his brow.

Overstone tossed a magazine aside and stood as they approached. He gave the cops a forced smile and shook their hand when Hank introduced them, then dropped wearily back into his chair.

Hank took a seat in a plush chair across from the distraught man and leaned forward, setting his briefcase on the floor beside him. King occupied an adjacent chair and slouched back, his arms resting on the comfortable armrests.

Hank began, “Mr. Overstone, I’m very sorry to hear about your wife.”

Overstone nodded in recognition, then narrowed his eyes and asked, “Have you found out who did this yet?”

“Not yet. We have some leads, and we’re doing everything we can to find the perpetrator.”

“You have a suspect?”

Hank hesitated. “We have a possible suspect.”

“Has he confessed?”

“Not yet. We’re still trying to find him.”

Overstone frowned.

“We’ll get him,” King put in.

Hank silenced King with a look. He didn’t like to make promises like that. He could only assure victims they would do whatever they possibly could.

King shrugged and tapped his fingers silently on the armrest, gazing around the small room.

Hank pulled out his cell phone, then stood and crouched beside Overstone’s chair. He swiped the screen a couple of times and said, “I’m going to show you some photos. Tell me if you recognize anyone.”

It was Hank’s mobile version of a police lineup, and most of the photos were of cops. Hank had found it useful in the past to help confirm the identity of someone by adding the person’s picture to the standard group of images.

Overstone agreed and looked at the cell phone, squinting at each photo as Hank swiped through them. He pointed to the last one, a glint appearing in his tired eyes. “I recognize him.”

It was a photo of Jake.

“How do you know him?” Hank asked.

“I’ve seen him on the news. It’s Jake Lincoln. Just two or three days ago, Merrilla and I saw a news story about him and his wife.”

Hank watched Overstone’s reaction. “Do you know him from anywhere else?”

Overstone looked at the photo again and shook his head. “Should I?” He paused and then asked with a frown, “Is he involved with the shooting of my wife?”

Hank moved back to his chair and sat down. “We think he might know something.”

Overstone appeared bewildered as he looked back and forth between Hank and King. “Haven’t you talked to him?”

Hank hesitated and King spoke. “He claims he was hired by your wife. According to him, your wife said you were having an affair.”

Overstone’s frown deepened. “That’s preposterous.”

“Are you having an affair, Mr. Overstone?” King asked.

“Absolutely not.”

“Was your wife having an affair?”

Overstone shook his head firmly. “Never,” he said in a raised voice. He glanced around, then lowered his voice and continued, “It’s ludicrous to suggest either one of us was.”

“We have to ask,” Hank said. “This is all for the record.” He paused before continuing. “I’m sorry, Mr. Overstone, but I also have to ask where you were this morning between ten and eleven.”

Overstone sighed and rolled his eyes. “I was showing a house,” he said, remaining patient. “I don’t have the phone numbers of the prospective buyers with me, but you can check with my office. They’ll give you the number and you can call them. They’ll confirm it.”