Naive Charles Royce (great novels .txt) 📖

“Thanks to both of you for rushing over here on a Saturday. Elaine Holcomb works fast, so we all need to plan our attack on this silly civil suit she’s concocted,” Shawn begins. “This is about the life insurance, plain and simple.”

“I don’t care about that,” Micah says. “Can’t we just give her the money?”

“Not so fast,” Shawn says, thinking about some of the proceeds from the life insurance paying his legal fees. And I’m about to be a father. “We have to fight it. It’s bullshit. This is going to be a long day, so let’s just hunker down, all of us.”

Haylee enters through the front door, gasping for breath. Shawn senses something is wrong and rushes through the open sliding glass doors toward her, frantic that something has happened to her or the baby. The others follow quickly behind.

“Honey, what’s wrong?”

“I saw him. At the car wash.” She sits down on the nearest chair she could find, which is the entry bench next to the door. “Ghost.”

“What?” Shawn says. “Did he hurt you?”

“No, baby, I’m okay.” She grabs his arm, gives him a curt glance. She doesn’t want him to ask about the pregnancy in front of the others. “But this Ghost guy. He works there! That’s where I remember him from. Last time I washed my car there, it was summer. And I remembered his tattoo because it was so strange. It had a bullet hole through it, which scared me. I remembered his look. But I didn’t put it together until today.” She gets out her phone. “There was an accident at the car wash and this man, this really pale black man got soaked and took off his jacket, and there it was.” She pulls up the photo of the man. “He saw me taking this picture, I’m sure of it.”

Shawn grabs the phone. The photo has a glare from the cracked windshield, but overall, it is clear and focused. When Shawn zooms in, he can see most of the tattoo, and the side of the man’s face. “Holy shit.”

Shawn pulls out his phone and begins searching for a number.

“What are you doing?” asks Allen Pinchot.

“Calling Detective Penance,” says Shawn. “If we nail this guy, the civil suit may drop before it even gets started.”

C h a p t e r   5 1

“Detective Bronson Penance’s office, this is Lilith McGuire, how can I help you?”

“Lily, this is Shawn Connelly. I represented Micah Br—”

“Yes, I know who you are, Mr. Connelly,” Lily says with an accidental snark. “Detective Penance took the weekend off, as you can imagine. But if there’s anything I can help you with, I’d be happy to.”

“My wife just found the Ghost guy that killed that young boy Frank, and most likely killed Lennox Holcomb. After she recognized him, he bolted quickly and you gotta find him. He works at Atlantic Car Wash, 800 Atlantic, in Brooklyn. And the phone number is 718-555-0045.”

Lily writes down the information on a scrap piece of paper on Detective Penance’s desk.

“I’ll give him the message,” she says.

“Is your department going to follow through this time?” Shawn urges. “Please don’t let him get away.”

“We got this.” She matches his severe tone. “Thank you, Mr. Connelly.”

Lily hangs up the phone and looks at the piece of paper. After five seconds of thought, she takes the note, grabs her purse and leaves.

C h a p t e r   5 2

Lily McGuire stands in front of a Lower East Side apartment building, staring up at the fourth floor. She double-checks the address she had scribbled in the cab. The angry car wash owner had also given her a detailed description of his missing employee that matched everything she already knew about the illusive Ghost. Now she’s standing in front of his home, with both his name and his address literally in the palm of her hand.

Bastien Morrell

152 Avenue D, Building C, Unit C-412

So, Ghost’s real name is Bastien, she thinks. A beautiful name for a killer.

Several buildings of differing heights surround Building C, each in a taupey-brown brick with white windowpanes. The brick has been patched several times over the housing unit’s half-century existence with newer brick that does not match. The result is a cold, forgotten veneer hiding hundreds of forgotten stories.

What am I doing here? she wonders. She wants to prove something to herself, to her boss. She is armed, confident in her ability to take care of herself and wants to follow through, no matter the circumstances. She calls the precinct but has every intention of proceeding on her own.

“Unit 7-28. Approaching suspect at 152 Avenue D, number 412, requesting backup.”

“All units respond, officer at 152 Avenue D, number 412, requesting backup.”

“10-4. Unit 12-42 on our way.”

She enters the five-story building through a metal and glass grid-like entrance with a huge rectangular fluorescent lamp above the doorway. She walks up four flights of stairs. A foul stench, a rancid mixture of marijuana and cleaning supplies, wafts through her nostrils, causing her to cough out loud. The noise echoes as it bounces off the concrete walls. The sun squeezes through a tiny row of windows along each floor, and the lights above flicker as if emitting a warning to stay away.

She approaches the apartment door marked 412, and knocks. The door creaks open. She draws her gun, nudging the door open further.

“Mr. Morrell?” She opens the door even more. “I’m Detective Lily McGuire. I just need to talk with you a moment, if I can.”

No one answers. She creeps into the room, pointing the gun toward any blind spots, just as she was taught in training. She leaves the door open to let the intermittent light from the hallway shine through into the dark apartment.

She walks down the short hallway and checks the bedroom and closet, observing the open drawers and the indentations on the bed.

Somebody was in a hurry.

Confident she is alone, she puts her