He parked his Chevy in the back lot, rounded the building, and went up the set of steps to the RHPD precinct. When he stepped inside, he was relieved to find it was a lot quieter than the evening before. The drug squad had finished congratulating each other on the prior day’s bust, and was settled in to work on their next undertaking.

Everything was back to normal—whatever normal was.

Detective King moped around, perhaps jealous he was removed from the drug squad to work homicide as Hank’s partner. Hank wasn’t sure what Diego’s thinking was on that decision. Perhaps he wanted to see where King worked best. Hank’s opinion was King didn’t fit in comfortably anywhere except maybe the occasional undercover job. He fit in pretty well with a lot of the riffraff on the streets, with a way—that Hank frowned on—of getting information from the criminal element.

Hank sat his briefcase beside his chair and crossed the precinct floor to Officer Callaway’s desk. The young cop glanced up as Hank approached and slid a file folder over, handing it to the detective.

“Some interesting stuff on Werner Shaft there for you. He’s got a record.”

“Thanks, Callaway.” Hank took the folder back to his desk and sat, pulling his chair in.

He opened the folder and studied its contents. Werner Shaft was an ex-con. He’d served time for burglary several years ago, had a short record before that, but was clean since being released from prison. Shaft had either gone straight, or gone smart and never got caught.

Either way, he was dead now, and his record might have something to do with it.

Shaft’s accomplice in the burglary case was another ex-con by the name of Michael Norton, also with no record since his release. There was no further information on Norton, Callaway’s report concentrating on Shaft.

Hank spun his chair around and wheeled over to Callaway’s desk. “If you have a minute to spare, I need a complete file on Michael Norton.”

“Right away, Hank.”

Back at his desk, Hank perused Shaft’s file more thoroughly. As Maria had said, he was employed at Richmond Distributing. Hank made a note to drop by there and talk to some of his coworkers.

Callaway dropped a sheet of paper on Hank’s desk. “Here’s everything I could find on Norton.”

Hank scrutinized the paper, flipped it over, ran his finger down the page, and stopped. Norton owned a 2012 Honda Accord registered in his name—white. It fit the description of the vehicle the gunman drove, according to the witness.

That information, along with his association with Shaft, was enough for them to bring Norton in, and maybe some serious questioning would result in a confession.

Hank got on the phone and called lead CSI, Rod Jameson. “Do you have anything for me yet?”

“We’re still processing everything, Hank,” Rod said. “I just got the ballistics report back and I’ll get it to you right away.”

“Anything enlightening in there?” Hank asked.

“Not much. Gunman used a .38-caliber. We recovered ballistic evidence in the ground under the victim’s head and ran it through our ID system. It turned up negative, so it wasn’t used in a crime before as far as our system could tell. That doesn’t mean it wasn’t, it’s just not in our system.”

“Anything else?”

“We found some shell casings on the street as well as a handful in places around the buildings. We’ll detail that for you and include it.”

“Any prints anywhere?”

“It doesn’t look like it.” Hank heard the rustle of papers over the line. Jameson continued, “I’ll get the ballistics report up to you right away and our complete report as soon as we get it finished. Our guys were up most of the night on this one and they’re still hard at it.”

“Let me know if you run across anything interesting in the meantime.”

“Will do, Hank.”

The shell casings seemed to confirm the witness’s story—the victim was chased around the building before getting killed between the two shops. Hank was interested in seeing the final report, which would detail exactly where those casings were found.

He didn’t have a motive yet, but he presumed it was a revenge killing, or perhaps something to do with money. It usually was. There didn’t seem to be any hard proof to connect Michael Norton to the shooting, but certainly probable cause. Enough for a search warrant.

Hank put together a written statement he would need for the warrant, explaining the crime Norton was suspected of committing, how it was carried out, and what they expected to find in the search. He stuffed it into a file folder and went to his reluctant partner’s desk. King sat with his chair tilted back on two legs, his feet on his cluttered desk. He crossed his arms and watched curiously as Hank approached.

“We have enough for a search warrant,” Hank said. “Get off your lazy butt. Let’s go get the warrant and we’ll bring this guy in for questioning as well.”

“Who’s the perp?”

Hank dropped the folder in front of King. “Michael Norton.”

King browsed the paperwork and whistled. “Looks convincing to me. That didn’t take you long.”

“All you have to do is apply yourself, King. It’s not that hard. You should try it sometime.”

King smirked. “I’m not so good at filling out reports, but I do my part.” He slid his feet off the desk. The wheels of the chair hit the floor with a clunk as he stood. “Let’s get him.”

Chapter 9

Tuesday, 10:16 a.m.

JAKE AND ANNIE sat in the Firebird taking turns watching the merchandise through the binoculars. Several people had shown interest in the televisions. One was sold, and the clerk was careful to select the second carton in the stack.

Jake sat with the seat pushed back, his hands behind his head, his eyes closed, while Annie took her stint at surveillance.

“We might have a live one,” she said at last.

Jake sat up and opened his eyes.

Annie dropped her glasses in her lap, leaned forward in the seat, and pointed to a red Hyundai hatchback sitting outside the front door of the store. “A guy in a hoody got out of that vehicle a second ago. He left the car door open, opened the trunk, and went into the store. The driver’s waiting.”

Jake grabbed his binoculars and trained them on the store. A hoody covered most of the man’s face as he stood in front of the stack of TVs. Jake glanced toward the checkouts. The clerks were busy with customers. They watched the man spin around casually, then he picked up the top two cartons, hoisted one onto each shoulder, and strode from the store without a look back.

The man slid the cartons into the trunk, slammed the lid, jumped into the front seat, and the car sped away as the front door closed.

Jake looked at Annie and grinned. “It’s definitely a live one.” He grabbed his iPhone and booted up the web-based map. A small red dot moved away from their current position. He handed the phone to Annie. “Let’s see where he goes. You can navigate.”

“Keep well back,” Annie said. “We don’t want to be seen. All that matters is where he ends up.”

Jake started the Firebird, backed from the slot, and zipped across the parking lot. As they approached the street, Annie kept her eyes on the map and pointed to the right. “He’s that way about two blocks.”

Jake turned and followed, making sure to keep a safe distance between him and the fleeing boosters. Jake lost track of him before long, but Annie guided him back on the right route. Five minutes later, after several turns, Annie held up the phone. The small red dot was at a standstill.

“It stopped,” she said, and pointed. “Turn there.”

Jake slowed and turned the wheel. “If we knew we were going to be following someone we could’ve brought your car. It would be invisible anywhere. This thing is as obvious as a pimple on the tip of your nose.”