“Punky Brown,” Jake said.
“Who’s Punky Brown?”
“The guy who’s taking shots at us,” Jake answered. “Hank called me. Brown is a two-bit punk who thinks he’s a hitman. King got the name from one of his CIs.”
“Did they catch him?”
“No. The problem is, they don’t know who he is or what he looks like. All they have is a name.”
Annie dropped her elbows on the desk and clasped her hands together under her chin. “It’s a start.”
“Can you find anything on him?” Jake asked.
“Don’t hold your breath on that. If Hank has no info, I doubt if I can.” Annie’s brow tightened. “The bigger question is, who hired him?”
Jake stood and paced the office. If Brown is getting the word out about his services, then somebody has to know. But they had no contacts in that world—at least none who would talk to him.
He stopped pacing and spun to face Annie. “I know who might be able to help. Sammy Fisher.”
Annie chuckled. “It’s worth a shot.”
“I’ll go see if I can round him up right away. Want to come?”
Annie looked at her monitor, then at the file folders opened on the desk in front of her. “I think I’d do better to stay here and see what else I can come up with.”
“Suit yourself,” Jake said, looking at his watch. “I should be back in lots of time to pick up Matty and Kyle.” He turned and left the office, then poked his head back in. “If you go out, don’t forget to wear your vest.”
Annie assured him she would and he hurried to the basement. He pulled his own vest from a shelf, blew off the dust, and examined it. The covering had a hole in one spot, the padding indented where it stopped a bullet not so long ago. He was wearing it at the time, and it was a close call. He had no aspirations in seeing another hole in the vest. At least, not while he was wearing it.
He put it on over his t-shirt, putting a button-down shirt over top, and then grabbed his keys and headed out.
Another cruiser was parked in front, a different pair of cops inside. He waved at them as he pulled from the driveway and spun up the street, turning his thoughts to Sammy Fisher.
Sammy was an enigma. Homeless by choice, he’d helped the Lincolns a couple of times in the past. He always avoided Jake’s questions as to why someone obviously intelligent and well educated would choose a life on the streets.
There was more to Sammy than met the eye. He seemed to have contacts everywhere—in every alleyway, and behind every dumpster in the city. Every cardboard box converted into a home sheltered someone Sammy called a friend.
Jake turned onto Front Street and pulled over to the side, twenty feet short of where the overpass crossed Richmond River. He got out of the car, stepped down into a small ditch, and faced an embankment descending fifty feet to the gentle river below.
He climbed down a few feet, dipped under the overpass, and grinned. It looked like Sammy still lived there. What Sammy called “his castle” was nothing more than a ten by ten excavation, burrowed into the embankment where the ground met the underside of the overpass, tucked back behind the concrete pillars.
A dirt-brown tarp camouflaged the doorway, sheltering it from the elements, and made the quarters invisible to all except those who knew it was there.
Jake pulled the tarp aside, peeked into the darkness, and chuckled.
The ground was covered with strips of wood, neatly laid side by side, making a solid floor. The back wall was shored up with wooden posts, covered with a piece of drywall. His bed consisted of a thick blanket and an old pillow. A couple of pots hung from the ceiling, and a small shelf unit contained the rest of Sammy’s meager possessions.
But Sammy wasn’t there.
Jake dropped the tarp back in place, climbed down the embankment, and sat on a flat rock by the edge of the river. Unless Sammy had changed his schedule, he should be back soon. In the past, Sammy usually scrounged in the morning, came home for lunch, took a nap, and then scouted around until evening.
He gazed into Richmond River as it rolled gently by, heading south to Lake Ontario. He was determined to find Punky Brown, not only for his own safety, but also for the sake of his family. The relentless killer was unpredictable and seemed desperate, and that made him dangerous.
“Detective Jake, what’re you doing here?”
Jake glanced down the bank. A man in scruffy jeans, a baggy t-shirt, and a tattered baseball cap was heading his way. He held a well-used grocery bag in one hand and he waved with the other.
Jake stood and grinned. He took a step forward and held out his hand. “Sammy. Long time.”
Sammy shook the offered hand and looked at Jake with clear, blue eyes framed by a leathered face. The tip of his shaggy beard rubbed against his shirt as he spoke. “Good to see you again, Jake. What brings you to my humble abode?”
“I need your help again, Sammy.”
“Anything for a friend,” Sammy said, as he kicked aside a soda can with a tattered runner and pointed toward the rock. “Have a chair.”
Jake took a seat as Sammy dropped down on the grass and stretched his legs out, leaning back against his hands. “How’s Detective Annie?”
“Annie’s doing great. She mentions your name from time to time. Wondering how you’re doing.”
“I’m getting by.” Sammy crossed his legs at the ankles and looked up at Jake. “What can I do for you?”
“I need to find a guy named Punky Brown. Apparently, he’s a wannabe hitman, and he’s been taking shots at Annie and me.”
Sammy looked into the river and squinted. “I haven’t heard the name before.” He looked back at Jake. “What’s he look like?”
“That’s the problem. Nobody knows.”
“Somebody knows,” Sammy said.
“With your contacts and undying charm, I’m hoping you can find out something.”
Sammy popped his cap off and brushed back his long, straggly hair with a hand. He put his cap back on. “I expect I can, Jake. Leave it with me and I’ll talk to my street family.”
Jake reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a cell phone. “Here’s a burner phone. Call me when you get anything.”
Sammy took the phone and looked at it. “You’re going to have to remind me again how to work these things. It’s been awhile. The battery died a long time ago in the last one you gave me.”
Jake gave Sammy some quick instructions on how to make a call. “My cell phone number is already in there,” he said. “The battery’s good for a few days if you don’t use it much.”
“I don’t have much use for one of these gadgets,” Sammy said, dropping it into his shirt pocket. “I’ll only be using it to call you, I expect.”
“I hope to hear from you,” Jake said, as he stood. “I’d like to chat awhile, but I want to get back to Annie. Make sure she’s okay.”
“That’s all right,” Sammy said. “I don’t have time to chat either. I have to find Punky Brown.”
Chapter 24
Wednesday, 12:01 p.m.
ANNIE TOOK the last bite of her sandwich, put the plate in the sink, and started a pot of coffee. She put together a lunch for Jake and slid it into the fridge; he’d be hungry when he got back. She poured a cup of coffee, went into the office and sat, staring blankly at her notes and sipping her drink. She didn’t have a whole lot of ideas.
She was startled out of her thoughts when the phone on the desk rang. The caller ID was unknown and she picked it up. “Lincoln Investigations.”
The caller hesitated. She heard light breathing, then, “This is Michael Norton.”
Annie spun her chair around and looked at a piece of electrical equipment on a shelf behind her. The glowing red light assured her the call was being recorded. She turned back to the desk.