Capture: A Crime Thriller (CJ Sheridan Thrillers Book 2) Read online

  “What do you mean?”

  Cruz opened his mouth but then snapped it closed. “I'm sorry. I can't divulge that information. I need more evidence.”

  Chapter Three

  Phillip Hamilton leaned against the wall, watching the occasional pedestrian walk down the street. A couple of young men staggered from a corner bar across the street and stumbled along the sidewalk. At least they headed towards the EL train a block away and weren't driving anywhere. The ‘Closed’ sign of a tired looking grocery buzzed sporadically. It was loud on the nearly empty street, and cast a red glow on the sidewalk beside him. The buzzing irritated him, making him wary that the bulb would pop any second so he moved beneath the tattered awning of a dry-cleaners. It was also closed at this time of night, but a taco stand on the other side appeared to still be open. The scent tantalized him, cutting through the tang of exhaust and the stench from rotting garbage in the alley cutting between the grocery and dry-cleaners.

  He glanced down the street. Any minute, if Phillip had his timing right. It was a few minutes after midnight, and Cruz should be leaving the police station soon. Phillip had already had one of his guys follow the other detective to get his routine. The nightshift had entered over thirty minutes ago and Phillip knew from experience how long the overlap would last.

  At last, he saw the detective leave the station. From the slow, heavy gait, Phillip guessed it had been a long, tiring shift for the man. Not that Phillip cared. He had business to take care of, and right now, Cruz was that business. He stepped from the shadows of the awning, noting the other man flinch for a moment, before recognition splashed across his face.

  “Evening, Cruz. I heard you questioned the witness in that drive by?” Phillip strode along the sidewalk with the shorter detective. He didn't offer up the name of Sheridan, even though that is the name he received from a source in Cruz's district. He wanted to see if the other detective would bring up the name first.

  “You mean the Thompson murder? Yeah? What of it?” Cruz cast a sidelong look at him, his posture tense.

  “I was there too, but must have missed you. I would have liked to question the witness, but didn't find out about him until I saw the report.”

  “Why? Afraid of what he saw? You're worried he can ID the shooter?”

  Phillip chuckled. “Worried? That's an odd choice of words. I'm hoping he can ID the shooter so we can arrest him.”

  “Right.”

  “What are you implying?” Phillip grabbed Cruz by the elbow, dragging him to a stop.

  The detective looked pointedly at Phillip's hand and shook it off. “I think you're worried that there's something in the shooter's background that might implicate you.”

  Holding his hands up to show he wasn't a threat, Phillip asked, “Why would I be worried?”

  “Because it wouldn't take a genius to connect you to Thompson.” Cruz kept a hand in his pocket and Phillip suspected he was clutching a gun. So, he thought Phillip was going to murder him right here in cold blood? It was tempting, but the time wasn't right.

  “But you're no genius, are you, Cruz?” The other man gave a tiny start, his eyes flicking to Phillip. “Yes, I know you think you have something on me, but you'd be surprised at how thorough I am. I don't make mistakes.”

  Cruz paused at the foot of the steps leading up to the train tracks. He glanced at his watch. “It's creepy of you to be lurking here, Hamilton. And I'm kind of wondering why you were even at the shooting. It's a bit out of your area, isn't it? And if I'm wondering, so will others.”

  Phillip shrugged. “Yes, but I was close by when the call came over the radio and thought I'd give a helping hand.” He didn't add that he was in the area just in case he was needed for back-up. He had rushed to the scene, hoping to dispatch the witness before anyone else got there, but Cruz had arrived within seconds. The detective must have been only a street or two away. Just dumb luck.

  “I appreciate that you tried to help, but really, I can handle it without you. And cut the bullshit. You want to know what the witness saw, don't you?”

  “Well, of course I do. I'm a detective too, after all.”

  Cruz let out a harsh sound that might have been laughter. “Yeah. Right. You’re so interested in seeking justice. Well, guess what? I'm not telling you shit. The last time I told you what a witness said, he turned up dead in front of a little grocery store.”

  “Coincidence. Nothing more.”

  His white teeth gleaming, Cruz shook his head. “Oh, but you're wrong. I got the information I needed to finally connect the pieces.”

  “What pieces? What info?”

  “Oh, I just bet you'd like to know. And this time, Hamilton, my witness better not turn up dead. In fact, I'm pretty certain he'll make it to court because this guy isn't some low life thug who you can make disappear and nobody will notice.” He gave Phillip a sly smile. “This kid has connections that even you can't touch.”

  Hamilton scowled. “What are you talking about?”

  “No time to talk. I hear my train coming.” He jogged up the steps, flashing Hamilton a mocking smile.

  * * *

  CJ unwound the bandage from his hand and examined the cut. It had already healed pretty well after a few days, and so he threw the old bandage in the wastebasket, and tossed the gauze and tape into the box of first aid supplies Blanche had delivered to him yesterday. While she had changed the bandage, she had also given him some basic instructions so that he could perform the task himself the next time. He smiled as he recalled how she had raised his hand to her lips and gave a light kiss on top of the dressing. Said it was her secret and reserved only for special patients.

  He'd left the bathroom door open and his dad walked past, stopped, and came back, one hand on the doorknob, the other on the doorjamb as he stuck his head in the room. “How's the hand?”

  CJ held it up. “On the road to recovery.” He set the bandage scissors inside the box and snapped the lid closed.

  “What's that?”

  “A first-aid kit. Blanche made it for me.”

  “What's wrong with the one we already have?”

  Grinning, CJ shrugged. “Blanche didn't make it?”

  His dad snorted, but slanted him a smile. “I'm on my way to have a beer with Mark and Jessica. Want to join us?”

  The offer tempted him and he really wanted to kick back at the pub, but Mark would question him about how he was doing. That was a given, especially since Mark had been busy with his own stuff and photo shoots the last two days. He'd left notes for CJ on what he wanted done at the studio, but other than that, they hadn't had time to bring up the failed save. CJ just wanted to forget all about it.

  Too bad Blanche worked tonight. She was the only one he wanted to talk to about the event. CJ knew Mark would say the right words, that it wasn't CJ's fault, and the whole nine yards. He'd mean well, but he couldn't know how his words of understanding cut CJ's confidence to ribbons.

  Since working with Mark the last few months, he'd learned more about what the man had gone through, and CJ knew his own problem was miniscule in comparison. Mark never spoke outright about what happened, but sometimes things slipped, like when CJ had asked about the scars on Mark's hands. Small, shiny scars that wouldn't have been noteworthy except CJ noticed that Mark had one on each hand. A matched set. That struck CJ as odd. Mark just brushed them off as not important, but Jessie had told him about Mark's encounter with a cult. Even she hadn't gone into details, but had said it was bad, that they'd almost killed him. It wasn't what she said that hit CJ, but the shudder and deep breath she'd taken at the mere mention of the cult.

  CJ had glossed over the minor wound on his own hand, telling his father just the bare minimum to get him to shut-up.

  “Okay. Well, you're on your own for dinner. I didn't make anything.”

  “No problem. I'll probably just scarf down a bowl of cereal or something.”

  His dad left and CJ went to the kitchen and poured a bowl of cereal, but when
he opened the fridge, there was only about a half cup of milk left in the carton. Crap. He thought about just having a pizza delivered, but he knew he'd want milk tomorrow morning, so he dumped the cereal back in the box and grabbed his car keys.

  He was heading to the garage when the doorbell rang. Could Blanche have been called off for the day? She said it was a possibility. Now that summer was over and the flu season hadn't yet hit, the ER was slow. Or, as she put it, a more controlled chaos. He smiled at the thought as he strode to the door, opening it with a grin. Only, it wasn't Blanche. It was a Chicago police officer. On guard before the grin had even faded, CJ stiffened. “Something I can help you with?”

  “Hello. I'm looking for Chris Sheridan. Would that be you?”

  “Yeah. That's me. Is there a problem?”

  The cop shook his head and held up a piece of paper. “No, sir. I have here that you witnessed a shooting a few days ago and the detective handling the case has a few questions for you. Would you mind coming in and speaking to him?”

  Relaxing his guard a bit, CJ nodded. “Sure. I could do that. When? Do I call first?”

  “Sorry, but he asked that I accompany you now, if that's convenient?”

  “What if it isn't? I was just on my way out the door.”

  “I realize we didn't give you any notice, but it won't take long.”

  It wasn't really an answer, but CJ sighed and shrugged. “Yeah. Okay.” He inclined his head towards the garage door. “I'll follow you to the station.”

  “I was instructed to drive you in.” The cop shifted on the front step, then his manner changed, his voice taking on a less formal tone. “Sorry, man. I just got my orders, but I'll hang out and bring you back as soon as you're done, okay?”

  CJ didn't like the arrangement, but the officer seemed sincerely sorry, so CJ nodded. “Fine.”

  * * *

  Phillip scanned the file on his desk. His anger still burned that Cruz had arrived on the scene first and had questioned the witness, and now after seeing the report filed, it pissed him off even more. Why hadn't he pushed to question the witness? Hell, he could have pulled rank, even if he was out of his territory. It wouldn't have been the first time. All he had to do was say he witnessed the crime in progress and was responding, only he'd thought it was better to fly under the radar and act like it was just another drive-by shooting. Still, it was too bad he hadn't recognized Sheridan, but who would with all the purple grape juice on his face? Dammit. It would have been better to grill him while he was still shaken and unguarded. How the hell did this stupid kid keep showing up everywhere?

  “I can't believe I have to deal with this.”

  “Deal with what?”

  Phillip glanced up from the report and grimaced when he realized his partner, Charles 'Chuck' Bukowski, had overheard him. “Just looking over the report from the other day. The homicide at the corner grocery.”

  Bukowski plopped down behind his desk and scratched his cheek. “Yeah. What about it?”

  “I just have some questions about one of the witnesses. I'm not satisfied with the answers he gave.”

  “Whaddya mean? His story checked out. The owner's story matched. Hector Cruz filled me in on it over a round of pool last night.” Bukowski rolled his chair close to Phillip's desk. “Is that the file?”

  “Yes.”

  Bukowski reached for it, but Phillip slid it away from his reach. “Hey, I'm using it now.”

  “Well, jeez, what's your problem, Hamilton? I just thought I'd take a look and see if there's anything Hector told me that might help.”

  Phillip sighed. He hated having a partner. It was much better when Chuck had been out on medical leave and Phillip had been able to work alone for those three months. “I’m sorry. I just got used to doing everything myself. You know how it is. You get a system and then things change. It takes some getting used to on my part to have a partner again.”

  Chuck shrugged. “Sorry, but I'm here now and so I guess you'd better get used to it.”

  “How's your back, Chuck?”

  The other man shook his head and scooted over to his own desk. “Did anyone ever tell you that you're a prick?”

  Phillip laughed. “More times than I can count. But I'm a damn good detective.”

  “Yeah, yeah. Whatever. Whaddya want to know about the witness? Hector said they didn't have much to contribute, but maybe he told me something not in the report. You know how reports are.”

  “I appreciate the offer, but I already sent one of the beat guys over to pick up Sheridan and bring him in for questioning.”

  “Sheridan? The kid who witnessed the shooting? He was too busy saving his skin to get a good look at the shooter. Hector said he was pretty shook up when he spoke to him.”

  Phillip seized on the excuse handed to him by his partner. “Exactly. That's why I want to question him again. I don't suspect him of anything, but you know how it is. Sometimes witnesses remember something a few days later when they've had time to reflect.”

  “You got grounds to haul him in for questioning?”

  “Oh, come on. I'm just making a request of him. He can always say no.”

  “So it's unofficial?”

  “I prefer to call it voluntary.”

  “But you sent a ride for him.”

  “Just for his convenience.”

  Chuck gave him a long look. “Right.” Then with a sigh, he planted both hands on the edge of his desk and shoved his chair backward. “Well, have at it.” Chuck glanced at his watch. “I'm outta here. See you tomorrow.”

  The minute his partner left the office, Phillip pulled out his cellphone and dialed a number. “Are you sure he saw you?” As he listened to the answer, his stomach knotted and he pinched the bridge of his nose. This was supposed to be a nice, clean, hit. He'd been assured it would look like a freak accident. Instead, they had at least one eyewitness and now Cruz was sticking his nose in. Sooner or later, if he kept digging, he was bound to hit something rotten. “Okay. Well, he's on his way in right now. I'll get a feel for how he's acting. I know this kid—questioned him before, so I think I can get a good read on him.”

  Listening to the man on the other end with one ear, and the sound of people approaching in the hallway with the other, Phillip broke into the guy's rant about how Sheridan was at fault. “Listen, I have to go, he's almost here. And no, I can't do that other questioning. Not now. Bukowski knows he's coming in tonight.”

  Chapter Four

  CJ followed the cop out to the police car parked on the curb. He glanced around, hoping none of his dad's neighbors were watching and getting the wrong idea. The cop opened the back door of the squad and motioned for CJ to get in.

  “The back? What's really going on here?” Was this some kind of trick?

  “Just policy. We can't have civilians in the front unless they're on an official ride along.”

  Well, he hadn't done anything wrong, so he had nothing to worry about. He was just being paranoid. He eased into the back of the car. It stank of sweat and that was one of the more pleasant odors emanating from the vinyl seats. As the car pulled away from the curb, CJ tried to make a joke when the cop asked if he was comfortable. “Oh yeah. Better than a stretch limo.”

  The metal bars separating him from the front seat was like an impenetrable barrier. A Faraday cage of sorts, only it blocked humor instead of electricity.

  With no response from the officer, CJ sighed and sat back. “Well, you can't blame me for the comparison. It just reminds me of the limo me and my buddies rented for our senior prom. By the end of the night, the limo stunk almost as bad as this back seat.”

  The cop cracked a smile. “Yeah, yeah. Just don't be asking for no champagne.”

  CJ grinned. “Hey, I didn't catch your name.”

  The cop hesitated, then said, “Cooper. Wayan Cooper.”

  “Good to meet you, Wayan.” Habit had CJ extending his hand for shake, but it met the bars. He pulled his hand back and shrugged.

&n
bsp; Wayan nodded. “Okay, we're here.”

  It was the same district station CJ had gone to when he'd lost his phone after saving Blanche. Wayan opened the door for him, and CJ quipped, “See? I told you it was like a limo ride. I feel like a rock star.” He opened his arms wide, as if greeting a legion of fans.

  “A rock star, my ass.” Wayan shut the door and waved for CJ to follow him, calling over his shoulder. “When the detective is done, just have him radio me and I'll come back to give you a lift home.”

  “Great. Another ride in your limo. Must be my lucky day.”

  CJ was pretty sure Wayan was fighting back a smile as he motioned to a row of hard plastic chairs in the hallway. “Have a seat, and I'll let Detective Hamilton know you're here.”

  “Whoa. Hold on.” CJ's eyes shot to the door of the office. “Hamilton?”

  “He's the one who sent me.”

  “Shit.” CJ stared at the door, his hands shoved into his pockets. He shuffled back a few steps and glanced back the way they'd come.

  Wayan squinted in confusion before leaning and taking CJ's bicep in a firm grip, tugging him forward. “Dude. What's your problem? He's just going to ask you a few questions. You're a witness to a murder. Did you think that whatever they asked you at the scene would be the last of it?”

  CJ shook off the hand and gave Wayan a hard look. “But why Hamilton? The guy hates me.”

  Wayan shook his head and rapped his knuckles against the door, keeping his eyes on CJ before opening the door at a muffled response from inside, with a final exasperated look at CJ, he stuck his head inside the office. “Got your witness here.” He pulled back, and swept a hand for CJ to enter.

  Straightening his shoulders, CJ ignored Wayan's nod and brushed past him.