Cold Justice (3 page)

He glanced to the right. The door to the master bedroom was
closed. A smaller bedroom was dead ahead, and to the left was the guest room.
He went left, creeping, the soft carpet deadening his footsteps. Just a few
feet more.

He reached the door and twisted the knob with his gloved
hand, swinging it gently open a few inches. He could see the bed at the side
wall. He smiled grimly when he saw Abigail. Her face was toward him, and her
shallow breathing told him she was in a deep sleep.

He cautiously moved across the carpeted floor until he stood
by the side of the bed. She hadn’t moved. Satisfied, he reached into his side
pocket and removed a small bottle. He twisted the top off and slowly poured its
contents into the drinking glass, half full of water, sitting on the
nightstand.

As Abigail continued to breathe, sound asleep and unaware,
he reached for the bottle of pills on the nightstand. He tucked the bottle
under his jacket to reduce the sound as he popped it open. Then he poured
several pills into his hand, counting as he went, and dumped them into his side
pocket. Again, using his coat, he muffled the sound as he snapped the top back
on and returned the bottle to the nightstand.

He took one last look at his sleeping victim and stole
quietly from the room. He held the pistol, ready, just in case. He listened.
All was quiet.

He made it to the top of the stairs, then down. He carefully
closed the door behind him before descending to the basement.

He stole across the basement floor, avoiding obstacles, and
hoisted himself out of the window. He slid it closed, then turned and made his
way across the back of the house, down the side, and then he was gone, blending
into the shadows and out of sight.

Wednesday, August 17th, 8:05 AM

THE EARLY DAWN threatened to brighten up Abigail Macy’s
room, even through the drawn curtains.

She had slept soundly. The extra sleeping pill she had taken
the night before had done the trick. She felt wide awake and refreshed.

Suddenly the events of the last days crashed back into her
memory.

She sighed and sat up, reaching for the bottle of pills. She
dumped two into her hand and picked up the glass of water. It felt warm, so she
dropped the pills on the nightstand and went into the washroom in the hallway
outside of her room.

She dumped the lukewarm water down the drain and turned on
the tap. She looked at herself in the mirror while waiting for the water to run
cold.

She looked a mess. She reached for a hairbrush in a basket
beside the sink and gave her hair a few strokes. Just enough to loosen some
knots. Then she frowned at herself, and tossed the brush back into the basket.

She rinsed out the glass and filled it with cold water. She
carried it back into her bedroom, and swallowed the two pills.

She looked at her watch. Philip would be gone to work by
now. She picked up her housecoat that had been tossed over the end of the bed,
put it on wearily, then knotted the belt, drawing it snugly.

Her slippers were peeking out from under the bed. She kicked
them out and slipped into them, wandered from the room, and went downstairs to
the kitchen.

She made a pot of coffee, poured a cup, and sat sipping it
silently.

She wondered if the murder she had seen was real. She hoped
it wasn’t, but couldn’t convince herself. She had seen his face, and she was
afraid to tell anyone who it was. He would come after her if she said anything.

She sat alone in the kitchen, quietly sipping her coffee,
fearful, and thinking.

Chapter 4

Wednesday, August 17th, 9:30 AM

DETECTIVE HANK CORNING was slouched at his desk in the
precinct. The desk, like the rest of the building, was well worn and had seen
better days. The ancient hardwood floor was popping in places, the paint
beginning to peel on the walls, and chairs squeaked and rumbled as officers
moved about. All around were the low sounds of chatter, a louder voice now and
then, phones ringing incessantly, all mixed with the hum of the naked
fluorescent lighting overhead.

Hank was sucking on a pencil and staring at the monitor of
his outdated computer. As head detective of Richmond Hill’s small
robbery/homicide division, he was trying to unravel a series of break-ins that
had been taking place in the south end of the city.

He ran his hand through his short cropped, slightly graying
hair before massaging the back of his stiffening neck. Too much desk time.

The phone on his desk jangled. He scooped it up.

“Detective Hank Corning.”

“Hank, it’s Jake.”

Hank sat forward and put his elbows on the desk. “Hey Jake,
what can I do for you?”

Jake and Hank had known each other a long time. They met as
teammates on the high school football team, and have been good friends ever
since. Hank went on to police academy after that. No amount of convincing would
get Jake to become a cop. He had already met Annie at the time, and as she went
to U of T, Jake decided to go there as well.

“We’ve been hired by Philip Macy to look into a murder his
wife claims to have witnessed, “ Jake said. “I’m hoping you have some info for
me.”

“The Macys? There’s nothing much to it.”

“You may be right Hank, but we need to look at it anyway. If
you can help us?”

“Sure, ok. That was a couple of days ago as I recall. I was
at the scene. Let me grab the police report and I’ll drop over and see you
guys. Just give me a half hour or so.”

“Sounds good. See you soon.”

Hank was eager to get out. He was more comfortable on the
streets, rather than sitting behind a desk.

The Macy case was already closed so he ran to the file room,
made a photocopy of the report, returned to his desk, tucked it into his
valise, and strode out the door.

His old brown 2008 Chevy was waiting for him in the parking
lot. It coughed a couple of times as he turned the key, then sputtered into
life. He popped it into gear, and ten minutes later, he turned onto Carver
Street and squeaked to a stop at the curb in front of the Lincoln’s.

Jake answered the buzz at the door with a wide grin. "Come
on in."

Hank followed him into the office where Annie was parked at
the desk. She looked up and smiled when they came into the room.

Jake pushed the guest chair toward Hank. “Have a seat,” he
said, as he grabbed a fold-up chair, flipped it open, and dropped into it. It
groaned gently under his two hundred and ten pounds of muscle and bone, but held.

Hank sat down, snapped open his valise and pulled out the
report. He handed it to Annie. She browsed it.

“It’s rather strange,” Hank said. “We talked to Philip and
Abigail Macy. Abigail is very convincing. Her husband certainly believes she
saw something, and I’m not so sure she didn’t either.”

Annie was consulting the notes she had made during the
interview. She frowned and said, “Apparently she had been drinking that night.
And she was on some kind of medication...”

“And,” Hank broke in, “we went to see her psychiatrist, a
Dr. Hoffman, who seems to be of the opinion she was delusional.”

“The booze, the drugs, and her anxiety disorder,” Jake said.
“That’s quite a combination.”

“Yes it is, and the fact we saw no indication of what she
claims to have seen, well, we had to close the case.”

“And you talked to the owner of the house?” Annie glanced at
the notes. “Kevin Rand?”

Hank pointed toward the papers Annie was holding. “Last page
of the report. We talked to him. If he had killed someone, we saw no evidence
of that, except for the lack of a woman in the house.”

“Annie frowned. “Do you think maybe he killed his wife?”

“We checked into that as well. He claims they are divorced,
and she moved out west. He gave us her contact number, so we checked it out. Unless
this is an elaborate cover-up, the woman I talked to certainly seemed to be his
ex-wife.”

“Maybe he had a girlfriend?” Jake suggested. “And he killed
her?”

Hank looked at Jake and shrugged. “Anything’s possible, but
unless we have a body, or at least some evidence of a crime, we have nothing to
go on.”

“And Abby didn’t want to talk to us,” Annie said.

“She didn’t say a lot to us either,” Hank said. “Philip did
most of the talking, and she nodded a lot. She seemed to agree with everything
he told us.”

Annie sighed and leaned back in her chair. “Where do we
start?” It was a rhetorical question.

Hank shrugged. “Beats me.”

Jake looked at Annie. “Any point in us talking to Rand?”

“That’s about all we have.”

Chapter 5

Wednesday, August 17th, 11:30 AM

“ACCORDING TO THE police report,” Annie said, “Kevin Rand
runs a sporting goods store, called Game Time, in Midtown Plaza.”

“We’ll take the Pontiac,” Jake said.

Annie grabbed her handbag from the small table in the
hallway. She checked to be sure it contained her cell phone and notepad, along
with the police report and other necessary items, and then headed for the front
door. Jake was right behind her, slipping his keys from a ring by the door on
the way out.

The Hurst mufflers rumbled when Jake turned the key. The
motor purred like a contented kitten, and they swung from the driveway onto the
street. The wide tires squealed as they sped away. Annie frowned and rolled her
eyes. She was used to it.

The sun glinted off the hood of the bright red Firebird as
they rounded the corner, heading for Main Street. Jake squinted, grabbed his
sunglasses and poked them on his face.

Another left and they were on Main, and in two minutes, they
pulled into Midtown Plaza.

The plaza was the home of the local Walmart store, along
with a long row of other shops and businesses. Game Time was a large corner
store at the far end of the plaza.

Jake was able to find a parking space in front. He pulled in
slowly, careful to keep a distance from other vehicles so a careless driver
wouldn’t open their door and ding his beloved machine.

The engine roared as Jake revved it couple of times, then
died down to silence as he switched off the key. They climbed from the vehicle
and went into the store.

“Is Mr. Rand here?” Jake asked the cashier inside the front
doors.

She motioned vaguely toward the back. “In his office, I
think.”

Jake led the way, wandering down aisles of jerseys and
t-shirts, skateboards, hockey sticks and pucks, baseball bats, gloves, and
caps. A big-screen TV hung from the ceiling replaying yesterday’s baseball
game. Jake stopped to try on a Blue Jays cap, then tossed it back on the rack
and turned away. Annie put the hat back in its proper spot and followed him.

A sign on the door along the back wall said, ‘Office, Employees
Only’. Jake tapped.

“Come in.”

Jake pushed the door open. Kevin Rand was sitting, crouched
over a desk, writing in a ledger of some sort. He looked up as the door swung
open. He was fairly short, maybe late thirties, with a dab of gray already
invading his temples. Thin, but not muscular. To Jake, he didn’t look like the
type to own a sporting goods store.

“May I help you?” Rand asked.

Jake offered his hand. “I’m Jake Lincoln, and this is my
wife Annie. We’re from Lincoln Investigations. May we ask you a few questions?”

Rand frowned and shook Jake’s hand, nodding at Annie. He
motioned toward a single empty chair. Jake moved aside and let Annie sit down, and
he stood and tucked one hand in his pocket, waiting for an answer.

Rand was still frowning as he looked up at Jake. “What’s
this about?”

Annie cleared her throat. Jake took the hint and shut his
mouth. He should let her ask the questions. She was always a little more calm
and patient than him.

“On behalf of Philip Macy, we are looking into his wife’s
claim she saw somebody killed on your property.”

Rand leaned back. “I don’t know anything about that.” He
sounded impatient. “I already talked to the police and told them everything I
know. Nothing.”

“Yes,” Annie said, “we saw the police report.”

“I have nothing more to tell you.”

“Mr. Rand, are you divorced?”

“Yes.”

“And your wife moved out west?”

“Yes, but what does that have to do with anything?”

“Probably nothing. Are you seeing anyone now? A woman?”

“None of your business.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Rand,” Annie said. “I don’t mean to pry. It’s
just if there was anyone in the house other than you, perhaps she heard or saw
something after midnight Sunday evening.”

Rand rolled his eyes in exasperation. “I’m too busy for a
girlfriend, and I start work early in the mornings. I was home alone. And
asleep. I heard nothing. I saw nothing.” He raised his voice. “In fact, I don’t
think there was anything to see. That woman made it all up.” He stood up. “Now,
if there’s nothing else, I’d like to get back to work.”

“Thank you for your time, Mr. Rand,” Annie said as she
stood.

Jake smiled slightly and nodded. “Thanks,” he said, as he
turned to leave.

Back in the car, Annie turned to Jake. “He wasn’t very
receptive was he?”

Jake shrugged as he turned the key. “Maybe he was just
annoyed with answering the same questions twice.”

“Maybe,” Annie said. “Maybe not.” She dug her notepad out of
her handbag and consulted it. “Rand lives at 76 Silverpine Street. Just down
from the Macy’s house. I want to go there.

Jake shrugged and backed the car out of the slot and sped
away, heading for Silverpine.

“What do you expect to see there?” he asked.