Jake waited patiently until Sammy decided to get to the point.
“Folks tell me he hangs around a place called Smokie’s Bar a lot?”
“Smokie’s Bar?”
“You know the place?”
“Sure do,” Jake said. “The victim and the suspect hung around there as well. That must be where the killer got in touch with him.”
“I’ve been playing around with the phone,” Sammy said. “I figured out how to take a picture.”
“Tell me you got a shot of Brown.”
“Yup. Sure did. And I figured out how to send it to you.” Jake heard breathing as Sammy paused, then, “Tell me if you get it.”
A moment later, Jake said, “Got it.” He turned the phone so Annie could see the photo of a man, standing with a cue in one hand, watching someone take a shot at the pool table.
The photo was taken from several feet away, but Brown would be recognizable anywhere. His large nose and gaunt, sunken cheeks most prominent, with his dark, ragged goatee a sharp contrast to his nearly bald head. He wore a faded, denim jacket and dark pants.
Annie squinted at the phone. “It could be him. I didn’t see him well enough to be sure.”
“Thanks, Sammy,” Jake said into the phone. “Great shot. I owe you one.”
“You don’t owe me. I’m glad to help. Just catch the guy who’s been shooting at my friends and I’ll be well paid.”
“I’ll let you know what happens, Sammy,” Jake said. “We have to get together some time soon. And Annie sends her greetings.”
A chuckle came from the phone. “You know where I live.”
Jake hung up and stood to his feet. “Brown might still be at Smokie’s. I’ll be back soon.” In two long strides he was out of the room, heading for the front door before Annie could say a word.
In a moment he was back, a crooked grin on his face. “Do you know where Smokie’s Bar is?”
Annie found the printout in her file and wrote down the address. “Be careful,” she said, handing it to him. “Maybe you should call Hank.”
“If I find the guy, I’ll call him,” Jake said, as he charged from the room.
He raced from the house, jumped in the Firebird, and in a few minutes, he pulled up half a block away from Smokie’s Bar. He stepped out, walked up the sidewalk, and stopped in front of a windowless building. A rustic, wooden sign above sported the name of the establishment. A notice on the door promised half-price beer all morning.
Jake tugged open the large wooden door and stepped cautiously inside. The last thing he wanted was to be seen by Punky Brown, if the killer was still here.
He was greeted by a dimly lit, smoke-filled room. An endless bar ran along the near wall, a vast array of spirits displayed behind. Peanut shells and sawdust littered the floor. Most tables sat empty, some occupied with people in various stages of inebriation. Three or four patrons perched on barstools, hanging over their drinks. Smoke burned his eyes. Lively country music filled his ears.
At the far end of the large room, hanging lights lit up a handful of pool tables. Players leaned in, and well-aimed cues stroked the balls. They spun across the table, colliding with a click, click, some thudding into pockets.
Several bystanders sat bug-eyed, engrossed in the games, letting out occasional howls at a shot gone wrong, or a chorus of cheers when one went right.
Jake nodded at the bartender and eased closer to the pool tables. As far as he could tell, Brown was not there. No one paid him any attention as he moved a few steps closer and looked around.
Brown was gone.
He spun back and approached the bartender. “I’m looking for Punky Brown.”
The proprietor wiped his hands on his off-white apron, squinted across the room, and shrugged. “He was here a minute ago. Guess he just left.”
Jake looked around for the men’s room, spied the sign at the far side, and strode across the room. He pushed the door open and stepped inside. No one was there.
He turned back and headed for the entrance, waving his thanks to the bartender as he strode by. He hurried out to the sidewalk and looked both ways. An old man hobbled up the street to his left, a couple of women to his right.
The sound of a motorcycle being kick-started caught his ears. He turned toward the sound and saw a familiar denim jacket, fifty feet away, past the old man.
It was him.
It was the guy who tried to kill Annie and him, and he was getting away.
Jake’s long legs sprang into action and he raced down the sidewalk as the bike eased forward. Five seconds later, his big hand had a fistful of denim, dragging the rider from the motorcycle. The bike went down and spun in front of an oncoming car. A horn blared and the vehicle swerved in time.
Jake dragged the man to his feet and whirled him around. His baseball cap soared away revealing a bald head, a gaunt face, and cold green eyes, widening with recognition.
It was Punky Brown, and he was reaching under his jacket.
Jake grasped him by the wrist, yanked his arm back, and a pistol clattered to the asphalt. Punky looked down at the weapon, then back up at Jake, his face contorted with anger. He struggled in vain to free himself from the viselike grip now holding both arms.
“Let me go,” the killer demanded through gritted teeth, his eyes burning with hatred.
Jake spun Punky back around, twisted his arms behind his back, and held them solidly in place with one hand. With the other, he did a quick frisk, checking for more weapons.
“You’re under arrest,” Jake said, forcing him to the sidewalk, face down. He held Punky solidly in place with a knee on his back, slipped out his cell phone, and called Hank’s number.
“I have our wannabe hitman,” Jake said when Hank answered. He gave the cop a quick briefing.
Hank was amazed and almost speechless. When he recovered, he said, “I can’t come right now, but I’ll contact dispatch and get the closest car there immediately. I’ll see you at the precinct. Don’t let him get away.”
Jake grinned. “He’s not going anywhere.”
Chapter 26
Wednesday, 1:41 p.m.
HANK SLID HIS chair back and watched as Punky Brown was led into the precinct. The would-be killer had a sullen, defiant look on his face. His chin jutted out, his eyes darting furiously about the room as if looking for an escape route.
Hank stood and intercepted the procession. “Take him to interview room one,” he said to the officer holding Brown firmly by the arm. “I’ll be right in.”
Punky glared at him briefly, then looked away as the officer marched him toward the back of the precinct.
Hank turned and grinned at Jake, a couple of steps behind. “Nice job.”
“It was him or us,” Jake said. “I had no choice.”
“Annie’ll be pleased.”
“I called her on the way over. She’s happy she doesn’t have to wear the vest anymore. Frankly, I am too.” He slugged himself in the chest. “Can’t wait to get this thing off.”
Hank chuckled. “Let’s see what I can get from this guy,” he said, and turned to Detective King who had wandered over. “Does he look familiar to you?”
King shook his head. “Never seen him before.”
Hank led the way across the floor and down a hallway at the back of the large room. He pushed open a door and turned to Jake. “You can watch from here.”
Jake went inside and King followed Hank into an adjacent room. The walls were bare, painted an off-white. A camera hung in one corner, pointed toward the center of the room. It would record everything said and done.
To their left, the upper half of the wall consisted of a large, two-way mirror. Jake would be watching with interest from the other side.
Punky Brown sat on a bench on the far side of a metal table, facing the mirror, his hands cuffed to a ring embedded in the table top. He glanced up briefly as the detectives entered, his surly expression unchanged.