Originally he had planned on staying in the service for another decade or so, but when Grandpa Payne died and left his company to his grandson, everything changed. At the time, Payne wasn’t ready to retire, but out of love and respect for the man who had raised him, he left the military and moved back to Pittsburgh to fulfil his familial duties. To help his adjustment to civilian life, Payne had convinced Jones to retire as well. In fact, he had bribed him to do it. He gave Jones office space in the Payne Industries complex and loaned him enough start-up capital to open his own business. It had always been Jones’s dream to run a detective agency, and Payne had the means to help. So Payne figured, why not?
In Payne’s mind, Jones was the only family he had left.
Not surprisingly, the pace of their lives had slowed considerably in recent years. Other than the rare occasions when Payne helped Jones with one of his cases, the only time they got to carry guns and have some fun was when they had their own adventures. The last time had been their trip to Greece. And it had been a life changer.
Thanks to their historic discovery, Jones suddenly had more money than he could possibly spend in his lifetime. Growing up in a lowermiddle-class family, he had lived his life frugally, always saving money for a rainy day. The military had paid for his education at the Air Force Academy and had taken care of his basic living expenses for nearly two decades which had allowed Jones to build a nice nest egg. Now he had more nest eggs than a chicken farmer.
The first thing he did was pay back all the cash he had borrowed from Payne. Not only the start-up capital, but also the money that Payne should have been charging for rent, plus interest. Payne had been reluctant to take it — he certainly didn’t need the funds — but Jones pestered him so much that he eventually agreed.
Unfortunately, there were some drawbacks to their sudden notoriety. For one, crackpots and treasure hunters were constantly approaching them with crazy schemes. And since Jones’s clients came from the general public, he had to deal with nutjobs more often than Payne. Sometimes they asked Jones for money. Other times they needed his guidance or required a helping hand on some wild adventure, but the sheer number of people contacting his agency was so large that Jones had to hire extra staff to screen potential clients.
Not that he was complaining.
As someone who loved mysteries, he was enjoying his second career. Still, compared to his days with the MANIACs, his current life was painfully boring.
Of course, all that changed with the shooting at the chapel.
His adrenaline was flowing, and he was craving more.
14
Auto dealerships and law-enforcement personnel call them tryout keys — they’re universally designed to get inside many makes and models of cars — but on the street, they’re called jigglers. As the two names suggest, they are grooved pieces of metal that look like keys, but the notches are so worn down they will fit inside most locks. In order to open a door, the key is jiggled left and right while being inched in and out of the keyhole. With a skilled touch, the grooves will eventually match the mechanism inside, and when that happens, the lock pops open.
During his time with the MANIACs, Jones had broken into more cars than he could possibly remember — sometimes to acquire an escape vehicle, other times to plant an explosive device. Over the years, those life or death experiences had hardened his nerves and steadied his hands, making his current mission seem easy by comparison.
Police across the street? Not a problem.
Even if they started shooting.
To block the cops’ view, Jones walked round the front of the car and eyed the passenger-side door. Like most Fords, the Taurus required a five-pin jiggler. Jones flipped through his tools as if he was fumbling for his keys and came out with the appropriate one. Handmade in his workshop at home, the jiggler was carved out of stainless steel. He slipped it into the keyhole and wiggled it slightly. Less than ten seconds later, he heard the lock click.
‘Not bad,’ he mumbled as he opened the door and climbed inside.
The interior was cold but not nearly as cold as it was outdoors. For that, he was thankful. He was also glad he had found a pair of black leather gloves at the chapel. They allowed him to rummage through Ashley’s car without leaving any prints. Not that it actually mattered. The shooting had taken place across the street, so he doubted that a forensic team would examine the car. But on the off chance they did, he preferred to keep his physical evidence out of the equation.
The first place he searched was the glove compartment. From his experience, that’s where most people kept their car registration and insurance card, and all he needed was Ashley’s full name and address. With that information, he could go back to his office and run it through every database and search engine imaginable. In a matter of seconds, her entire life would appear on his computer screen, everything from her date of birth to the size of her latest paycheque.
When Jones opened the latch, he expected the storage space to be jammed with personal items — CDs, cosmetics, a small purse, maybe even some food. Anytime he went on a road trip, he packed peanut-butter crackers or protein bars, so he wouldn’t have to stop for snacks. And if Payne, a freak of nature who had to consume more than 8,000 calories a day or he lost weight, was along for the ride, then they brought multiple sandwiches or several containers of beef jerky to keep him from getting cranky. Therefore, when Jones looked inside the glove box and found it empty, he was more than surprised. He was borderline stunned.
‘What the hell?’ he said to himself.
At the very least, he had expected to find her paperwork. But nothing? That didn’t make any sense. Even the most obsessive people in the world kept something in their cars, even if it was just a dust cloth to tidy up. But an empty glove box was suspicious.
Suddenly, all types of paranoid thoughts ran through his mind. Had the assassin gone through the vehicle before the shooting? Worse still, what if the shooter had a partner who had done it? There might be another gunman floating around the Pitt campus, searching for his next target.
It was a concept Jones hadn’t considered until that very moment.
For all he knew, a sniper could be eyeing him from a nearby building, patiently waiting for the cops to leave before he pulled the trigger.
Boom! Boom! Boom!
The sound echoed from above like gunshots. With a burst of adrenaline, Jones nearly dived into the backseat until he realized what had made the noise. Someone was on the street outside, pounding on the roof of the car. Jones glanced out of the driver’s side window and saw a muscular man in a tuxedo and black gloves. Only then did his heart rate start to calm.
‘Holy hell,’ he cursed as he leaned over and opened the door, ‘you almost killed me.’
Payne grinned and slipped inside. ‘Sorry about that. I thought you saw me.’
‘You know damn well I didn’t see you, or you wouldn’t have knocked.’
He shrugged, not willing to confirm or deny anything. ‘Any luck?’
‘With what?’
‘Your search.’
‘Nothing so far. Then again, I just got here.’
Payne pointed. ‘Did you check the glove box?’
‘First thing I did. It’s empty.’
‘Any paperwork?’
‘Nothing.’