By Historian
CHAPTER ONE: BUILDING A FRAME
C’mon, asshole, lift something. Drea Rodgers peered through the camera’s viewfinder at the sailboat. Her companion did likewise with a camcorder. Cindy Lee was a friend and likable enough, but she was Jack’s secretary and not a detective. That fact wasn’t lost on her boss, Drea well knew, he had openly mentioned looking for a fourth detective.
The private detective agency Mac Clarey and Associates was hired by a law firm defending against a personal injury lawsuit. The plaintiff claimed to have suffered a back injury to the extent he was unable to lift more than ten pounds. Their client thought otherwise, and so here Drea stood on a dock at a marina, in swimsuits and open blouses staking out a sailboat.
The first chance was a false alarm. The man carried a Styrofoam cooler, but it was impossible to tell if anything was in it. He hadn’t removed his shirt, which could have revealed a back brace—or the lack of one. Finally, he made a trip back to the truck and hefted a scuba tank onto his shoulder.
“Gotcha!” Drea declared as she snapped the shutter. “Let’s go before he sees us.”
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The man and woman resembled each other in some ways. Both were tall for their sex, but not greatly so. Both had thick chestnut hair, though his was running to gray, often joking that she was the cause of it. Their clothing even resembled each other He wore a blue blazer, gray slacks, white shirt, and red tie. While she wore a blue jacket white blouse, her gray garment was a short skirt, not slacks. Their clothes were chosen separately, but perhaps reflected the fact that Jack Mac Clarey was not merely Anne Thorne’s employer, but her uncle and adoptive father as well. They were in a warehouse owned by their client, who suspected it was being used to hold drugs.
Anne was absorbed in the looking through the place to notice the man taking aim at her. All she knew was that Jack called out “Down!” before she heard the shot. She tried to get up, but her legs were pinned to the ground. As she pulled her legs out from underneath him, Jack rolled onto his back. Anne pulled the .32 automatic from her oversized purse and looked for the shooter, but he was nowhere to be found.
Anne looked at Jack who still on the floor. In a moment she knew why. There was a red stain on the right hand side of his chest. Anne froze in place. “Call an ambulance,” he gasped.
She did, and the paramedics came quickly, but it seemed like an eternity to Anne. As soon as they arrived, she asked where would they take Jack.
“Rampart Emergency,” was the reply. She took her cell phone and made two more calls.
Anne accompanied the ambulance to the hospital and would only leave Jack’s side at the emergency room doors. Once Jack disappeared behind the doors, she sat down in the nearest chair and buried her face in her hands. “Anne?” a familiar voice asked.
She looked up to see a rakish looking young man in a paramedic’s uniform. His brass nameplate read “Forrester” and he had short red-brown hair and the merriest hazel eyes Anne had ever seen.
“What are you doing here, Jason?” she asked.
“Brought in a guy with a heart attack,” he replied. “Never mind that. What are you doing here?”
“It’s Jack.” She went to explain what happened.
“Where was he shot?” he asked.
“In a warehouse,” she answered before she realized he’d mean anatomically. “Upper chest, right hand side.”
“That’s good. Looks like you got him here on time. A lot also depends on the size of the bullet, the type of gun, and the range.”
“It’s all my fault. I wasn’t paying attention and he pushed me away.”
Jason said nothing. Strange how people either blamed themselves for things that were not their fault or refused to take responsibility for their actions. He was grateful when Jack’s wife appeared.
Sharon Mac Clarey was about an inch shorter than Anne and had dirty blonde hair that tumbled down to her shoulders. She apparently was doing some gardening when Anne called. Work gloves protruded from the pockets of her faded denim cutoffs, her sneakers were old and battered and there was some dirt on her T-shirt.
“I’m sorry, Sharon,” Anne sobbed. “It’s all my fault.”
“Oh, Anne, I knew from the day I married Jack something like this could happen,” Sharon said calmly. “Blaming yourself, or anybody else, will do no good.”
At that point, Drea and Cindy came in. Jack insisted on a professional style of dress around the office, though he’d voiced no objections to short skirts, as the two newcomers could attest. They each hugged Sharon and Anne in turn before asking what had happened. Anne gave a description of the events in the warehouse.
“I’ve got to get back to the station,” Jason said when Anne was finished.
“Look, why don’t we head down to coffee shop, rather than just wait here,” Sharon suggested.
The four were about halfway through their coffee when a doctor in surgical scrubs showed up in the coffee shop. He was family friend and said. “Jack came through all right, and the gas should be wearing off in a few minutes.”
“How is he, Lou?” Sharon asked.
“Lucky for him the bullet missed the brachial artery, and it didn’t go in very deep. He’ll make it. You and Anne can start up there now.”
Sharon and Anne entered the room cautiously. Jack was lying on the bed with eyes open. “How are you?” Sharon asked.
His response was from Jack Dempsey, by way of Ronald Reagan: “Honey, I forgot to duck.”
That broke the tension. For the first time since the shooting, Anne broke a smile. “I’m sorry,” Anne said.
“What for? You called the ambulance, you called Sharon, and I suppose you called the office.”
“Drea and Cindy are downstairs.”
“Then you did everything right. Now do you know why I have a conniption fit every time you go off on your own.”
Anne nodded and the door swung open. Another woman entered, and this one was neither a doctor nor a nurse. Her name was Raelene Matthews and she was not only the youngest female lieutenant in the police department’s history, she was also the youngest who didn’t come from a police family. Her penetrating blue eyes were framed by short brow hair, and she wore a teal jacket over a cream-colored blouse and teal slacks. “Are well enough to give a statement, Jack?” she asked.
“Sure,” he replied.
“Good.”
“Take one from Anne first.”
“Why?” Anne asked.
“We still have a case, remember?” Jack said. “Not only that, the Blazer isn’t going to go home by itself.”
Anne gave her statement and left then Jack gave his. Both were similar, but not the same. Raelene was satisfied with interview. “One thing about it,” she said. “We don’t have a type on it, but judging by the size and weight, we’re leaning toward a thirty-two.”
“Same kind I use,” Jack remarked.
“You and the girls,” Raelene observed, even though she was only ten years older than Drea.
With that, Raelene left the room. She’d only scratched the surface on this case. Her end was who had shot Jack, while Drea and Anne would work on whatever it was that had brought the warehouse to Jack’s attention. She would have to remind Anne of that fact.
On her way through the parking lot, she checked her notes a second time and put them in her jacket pocket. Before she could make another move, a hand was clamped over her mouth and she felt a jolt of electricity before everything went dark.
Raelene came to in the dark as well. Her ankles were bound and, strangely enough, her left arm was tied to the arm of the chair at the wrist, but the right one was secured at the elbow. In fact, her jacket was gone and the left sleeve of her blouse was rolled up. Her tongue made contact with some kind of cloth, and she was now sure she was blindfolded.
The blindfold was removed and her eyes adjusted to the light. The sound of footsteps had told her at least two other people were in the room with her, which turned out to be a basement room. When her eyes were fully adjusted, Raelene saw another captive, a young black woman dressed like a streetwalker. She was tied to a support post in a kneeling position and piece of duct tape over her mouth. Her eyes showed fear, which Raelene could understand completely. One of the others stepped into view, clad head to toe in form fitting black, which showed female contours. Her face was concealed in what the Brits called a balaclava, was seldom used in the States.
The woman undid the rope securing Raelene’s left wrist and held it at full length. Her partner produced a hypodermic needle and put it into the crook of Raelene’s arm. Once again, everything went dark.
A second time, Raelene regained consciousness in the basement room. This time, she was lying on the floor untied. Her jacket was now draped over the chair and her gun was lying on the floor near her. The black girl in the hooker’s outfit was still tied to the post, but she was slumped forward. A minute later, Raelene knew why. The girl, who could not have been more than twenty, had a bullet wound in her chest. Just the, Raelene heard a familiar sound.
That of a police siren.
Chapter Two