Capture: A Crime Thriller (CJ Sheridan Thrillers Book 2) Page 4

  * * *

  “Mr. Sheridan. Good to see you again, and thank you for coming in. Please, have a seat.”

  “Call me CJ.” He was wary of the friendly tone, but sat in the chair on the opposite side of the desk. Last time he'd been questioned, it hadn't been in Hamilton's office, but a room meant for questioning suspects. He didn't know if this was a good or bad sign. He knew that the official questioning rooms often had cameras, but he didn't spot any cameras, not even locations for hidden ones. He wiped his palms on his thighs.

  “How have you been, CJ? I understand from the report that you suffered an injury during the shooting?”

  “It was nothing. I'm fine.

  “You always are, aren't you?”

  Narrowing his eyes, CJ tilted his head. “Excuse me?”

  “You just seem to be incredibly lucky. How many times have you been involved in or witnessed a crime in just the last three months? Four? Five?”

  CJ shrugged. “I'm not keeping count.”

  “Yes, I suppose it must be hard to keep track, but I looked you up in the national database, thinking you must have had a lot of contact with police in your past. However, to my shock, up until about six months ago, other than a speeding ticket, your record is clean.”

  “Yeah. So? I'm a law-abiding citizen.”

  “Technically, you're correct, but we both know you've recently been skating on thin ice.”

  “If you say so. Listen, Detective, I have plans tonight, so if there's something you wanted to ask me, could you just cut to the chase?” He didn't have plans, but even trimming his toenails would be more fun than sitting here in this jerk's office.

  Hamilton pursed his lips and shrugged. “No problem. And, I think you know my first question.”

  Frowning, CJ shook his head. “Nope. No clue.”

  “What were you doing in that neighborhood?”

  “What does it matter? It's a free country. I wasn't breaking any laws, if that's what you're really asking and that's all you need to know.” He was tired of the third degree he'd received from this guy in the past. What was his deal?

  “Why don't you ever give me a straight answer?”

  “Why don't you ever ask me a legitimate question? I'm more than willing to help you however I can with the shooting. I'd love to see the asshole who killed that guy caught and locked up. Hell, he shot at me, too.” CJ put his hands on his knees and leaned forward. “But you don't seem to have any real questions, so I'm outta here.” He stood and strode to the door.

  “Sit down!”

  CJ paused, his hand on the doorknob and looked at the detective.

  Hamilton's eyes bulged and his mouth twisted. “Listen, Sheridan, your daddy can't always protect you from facing the consequences of your actions.”

  The snide tone drew CJ back to the desk, his fists clenched at his sides. “My daddy? Are serious? My father hasn't protected me—he doesn't need to. Just because you're over-zealous doesn't mean I'm guilty of anything.”

  Hamilton drew in a deep breath, his hands on his hips as he studied the ceiling. He blew out the breath, and appearing somewhat calmer, he gestured to the seat again. “You're right. I apologize. Please, let's start over.”

  He should just walk out the door, but he really did want to help and so CJ returned to his seat, his back ramrod straight.

  “Can you give me a description of the car? I know you gave a few details in your original questioning, but sometimes witnesses remember something hours or days later. Anything can help us.”

  Letting go of his anger wasn't easy, but he did his best as he pictured the scene again in his head. “Um, okay. It was a blue car, dark blue, two doors. I think it was a Ford. It had tinted windows. The driver wore sunglasses, and a hoodie, so I didn't get a good look at him.”

  “Beard or mustache?”

  CJ closed his eyes replaying the scene. “No. Dark stubble, though.”

  “Age? Approximate.”

  “I couldn't really tell. I'd guess late twenties to maybe forty?” Now that his anger had dissipated he became frustrated that he didn't have anything more to give. His images and dream from that day had focused on the victim, except for a brief glimpse of the car. Then CJ remembered the hands. He'd told Cruz already. “Just the tattoos I mentioned to Cruz.” He held his hand up, pointing to his knuckles. “Right across there.”

  “What kind of tattoos?”

  “I'm not positive. Sort of circular with a blueish tint. Looked like the homemade ones I've seen on some guys. Girls too, for that matter. One of the tattoos was a red X.”

  Hamilton looked up from the pad of paper he was jotting notes on. “You're positive about the tattoos?”

  “Yeah. My eyeballs were glued on that gun pointing right at me. I can still see it.”

  Hamilton wrote something, jotting notes down and then said, “Anything else? Did he speak to you?”

  “Not that I recall.”

  “Nothing? So you didn't hear if he had an accent or anything?”

  “No. Sorry. I mean, he had a deep voice, but I didn't hear an accent.” CJ wondered why he was apologizing. It wasn't his fault the killer didn't speak.

  Hamilton jotted a few more things down then set his pen on the desk. “I think that's about all I have for you now. Thank you, again, for coming in.”

  Surprised the questioning had gone easily once they had gotten past their history, CJ stuck out his hand. “You're welcome. I hope I helped a little.”

  After a slight hesitation, Hamilton took CJ's hand and gave it a brief shake.

  * * *

  Phillip watched the door shut behind Sheridan, then glanced down at his notes. The guy had witnessed the murder, but had he seen enough to jeopardize the operation? Sheridan claimed he didn't get a good look at the shooter, but what if he was holding back? Lying?

  Tilting in his chair, he kicked his feet up on the corner of the desk, clasping his hands behind his head. Why would he lie though? Phillip stared at the line-up of awards and commendations on the wall of his office. Sheridan could be lying for a plethora of reasons. First and foremost, his father was in the FBI. And not just in it, but the damn SAC.

  His skin prickled and he dropped his feet to the floor, sitting forward. What if the elder Sheridan was conducting an investigation into Phillip's operation? It was a possibility. Despite all the care he'd taken to cover tracks, there could always be leaks. In fact, he had a leak to deal with even now. Damn Cruz. He liked the guy too. With a sigh, he jumped back to his current problem. Now wasn't the time to be side-tracked. He'd deal with Cruz soon enough. He had to. The guy was threatening to go to internal affairs with his information. It was just a fluke that he'd found evidence pointing to Phillip's operation. Just dumb luck, really. It wouldn't have even mattered much if Cruz hadn't been the one to question Sheridan at the scene.

  If the FBI had suspicion, but not enough evidence, they'd probably sit tight, and just watch. He debated whether he should lay low for a while. It was tempting, but he had a big shipment scheduled to arrive in a few weeks. Delaying it would send the wrong signal to his suppliers. Right now, he had a great thing going on. The streets of Chicago were a veritable smorgasbord of weapons. Weapons that were just begging to be liberated from the hoodlums using them to commit crimes. He really was helping lessen the violence in the city. Profiting from it was just a win-win situation. The city had fewer guns on the streets, and he had more money in his pocket. The money was not just for him though, as he had informants scattered throughout the city keeping tabs on who had what kind of weapons. Sometimes he even used the information to help solve cases. Mostly he used it to confiscate the best guns. The prized weapons. All in the name of public safety, of course. After all, Chicago had very strict gun ordinances. He chuckled at that one. So what if he only reported three handguns confiscated when they took in six, plus a couple of automatic weapons? They were off the street and he had done his part to help make the city safer.

  The next part of the operation
was a little trickier, but especially lucrative. The weapons were sold to an up and coming cartel in South America. He wasn't certain where they sold the weapons, but guessed it was to Middle Eastern groups. It wasn't his concern. His focus was the money he was paid. With it, he bought pharmaceutical grade narcotics from a supplier in Mexico. He was pretty sure the supplier had paid off the local cops to operate their factory. Whatever worked.

  Phillip had cornered the market on the quality stuff and because of that, was able to demand top dollar on the street. Not that he personally sold it. That would be low-class. No. He was so far removed from that arm of the operation that it would take a couple of units in the FBI to untangle the whole operation. He wasn't too worried about that. At least not yet. There were so many others beneath him who he had carefully set up to take the fall if it ever came to that. None of them knew that, but he had planted evidence in the form of records, photos, and recorded conversations, all safely stashed away, that he could claim his only role was as a detective trying to bring the operation down. Nope. He definitely didn't need to touch any of the product.

  His role was to direct the operation, giving orders to only a select few. They in turn, recruited the help. And he had plenty of help. There was no shortage of people who could be called upon to do almost anything for the right price.

  And now, his whole burgeoning empire was in jeopardy because of a young punk who happened to witness a hit. It was tempting to just put a hit on Sheridan and be done with it, but there was the problem of the father. CJ might have told him something. He might even have been working for him.

  Before anything could be done about the problem, Phillip needed more information. CJ Sheridan had a strange history of late, and Phillip didn't know for certain, but he suspected it tied into his father's work with the FBI. How else to explain the dropped weapons charges a few months ago? It had cover up written all over it, and if nothing else, he wanted to dig into it. Anything he uncovered could be used as leverage.

  He wondered if perhaps young Sheridan was working for one of the other outfits plying the Chicago drug trade. Could they be trying to knock off the competition? It was a remote possibility, but something he would have to investigate.

  Chapter Five

  Mark checked his camera bag to make sure he had everything he needed for the location shoot. He wouldn't have time to come back and get something if he forgot it. Good thing it was only a morning shoot because he'd have just enough time when he finished the shoot to take care of a tragedy he'd seen in a vision. At least it wasn't anything major. He shook his head even as the thought entered his mind. Major was subjective. To the child's mother, it was more than major, it was her whole world. Luckily, all he had to do was be there when her three-year old son yanked his hand from her grasp and darted into the street. He'd seen where and when, so he just had to be there to catch the little guy before he made it to the curb. Shouldn't be too hard.

  He never knew why he was shown some tragedies and not others. Was there something special about the little boy he'd save today that made his life more important than any other people who would die today? In a city the size of Chicago, there had be dozens of people who died every day who could have been saved if Mark had known.

  Or if CJ had known. Mark still wasn't used to someone else using the camera. He didn't mind, but it was just weird. How was it possible that not only was there someone else who had the same power, but that he was someone Mark knew? He sometimes wondered if Jim was somehow the catalyst. Maybe there was something about him, since Jim was the only connection Mark and CJ had. It was a decent theory but didn't explain how Mark had discovered his ability several years before ever meeting Jim.

  He set the camera bag on the desk as he heard CJ’s car door shut out in the alley. He moved to unlock the backdoor. So far, their arrangement was working well, but he didn't think CJ would be happy in the job for too much longer. He was young, educated and would want something more than a low-paying job as a photographer's assistant. Despite his use of the camera, he didn't show any special aptitude for photography and not much interest either.

  “Hey, Mark.” CJ breezed past and headed to the desk beside Mark's.

  “Good morning. I left a note with a few things I need you to do today…that is, if you don't have anything else to do.”

  CJ shook his head. “Nope. Nothing else on the agenda. How about you? Anything?”

  “Yeah, but not until later. I'll be done with my shoot before then.”

  Mark cocked his head. “Hey, is something going on?” It had been three days since CJ had spoken about using the camera. The day of the shooting. Mark supposed the camera could just be in one of its funks when it didn't show anything. It happened from time to time, but Mark had a feeling it was more than that. “So, the camera keeping you busy? Is that what you had to do last night?”

  “Huh?” CJ looked up from the list Mark had mentioned. “No. It's been kind of slow, actually.” He didn't look at Mark as he said it, but rather, hunted around for something on the desk.

  “Do you need something?”

  “My pen.”

  “It's next to your monitor.” Mark knew a redirect when he saw it. CJ didn't want to talk about the camera. Which was exactly why he needed to. “You know, if you ever need to talk about the camera or problems you're having with or because of it, I'm right here. Believe me, nothing you say could surprise or shock me.”

  CJ froze, pen in hand, eyes wide. Then he blinked and shook his head. “Thanks, but everything is fine.”

  Mark didn't believe him, but decided not to push the issue. He looked at the clock on the wall. “Damn. I have to go, but I mean it, CJ. I wish I had more time to talk to you, but I'm going to be lucky to make it on time to set-up before the models arrive.”

  * * *

  CJ sank onto his desk chair the moment Mark left. He'd almost confided his fears when Mark had offered to listen. It was so tempting, and he might have expressed his fear if he could have figured out what the hell he was afraid of. He just knew that the thought of using the camera again made his gut twist and burn like he'd eaten last July's leftover chili. Hadn't Mark told him just a few months ago to listen to his gut? Well, his gut wasn't whispering to be cautious, it was sending him the equivalent of a hundred and ten decibel scream to back off.

  Something was up. He was sure of it. It couldn't be that he was simply a coward…could it? He drew in a deep breath and scrubbed his hands down his face. No, he wouldn't believe that. Not yet, anyway. Could the camera influence his body like this? When he thought of the charge of energy he usually felt when using the camera, he knew that the device had some way of tuning into his body chemistry or aura or something. Not that he believed in auras, but he'd seen something on the History Channel. It investigated the paranormal and supposedly, the filmmaker had captured someone's aura on video. The more he thought of that, the more he worried that he was grasping at straws. His aura wasn't being affected—more likely he was just a big ass coward.

  CJ clasped his hands, his elbows braced on the desk as he rested his forehead against his knuckles.

  “Um, am I interrupting a private moment?”

  He propelled to a standing position as if a he'd been sitting on a lit firecracker. “Jessie! I didn't hear you. I guess I thought you were already at work.”

  She smiled and strode to Mark's desk. “I'm on my way out the door, but Mark forgot his cellphone.” She looked around the small office and frowned. “I was hoping to catch him before he left.”

  “Sorry, he left a few minutes ago. I can drive it out to him if you want.”

  “Could you? That would be fantastic. I have to get to the office.” She handed CJ the phone.

  “Does he need it right away or can I clear off this list of stuff I need to do first?”

  She shrugged. “I think he'll survive an hour or so without it.”

  “Great. I'll get this stuff done and head over to the shoot. I've been wanting to watch a location shoot an
yway.”

  “And the fact that this is a swimsuit shoot at the beach has nothing to do with it?”

  CJ grinned. “Hadn't even crossed my mind.” In truth, it hadn't, but now that she mentioned it…

  After she'd left, he made short work of the list Mark had left. It wasn't hard, just reordering some supplies, confirming the next day's jobs and setting up appointments for those whose proof-sheets were ready to be viewed and orders placed.

  Grabbing the phone, he clutched the address of the shoot in his hand. North Avenue Beach. He'd heard of it, but so far, hadn't had an opportunity to visit the lakefront. Too bad it was too cold to swim now. Poor models. They were going to be pretty chilly while rocking out the swimsuits for some magazine's winter swimwear issue.

  * * *

  CJ stood, his stance wide, arms crossed as he watched Mark work. The guy was good. He directed the models on how to stand and where to look, but it was more than that. He kept up an easy banter, and CJ was pretty sure that by the end of the session, several of the ladies had developed a crush on the guy. As one of the models, a gorgeous brunette, tried to sidle close to Mark under pretext of not understanding what he'd said, Mark directed her back to her place in front of the lens, while repeating his instructions, never losing his patience.

  Good thing Jessie hadn't delivered the phone because he was pretty sure she could smite any of these girls with one deadly look. Chuckling, CJ looked down at the sand, scuffing his foot through it, sending a stone tumbling over the beach until it came to a rest at the solid packed sand at the edge of the surf.

  He glanced at the young ladies again, doing a double-take when one winked at him. She smiled, one eyebrow lifting. He returned her smile and nodded, but then turned his attention to the horizon. She might be gorgeous, but she wasn't Blanche.

  The lake was deep blue and stretched farther east than he could see. Looking south, the beach curved into the Chicago skyline as it rose into a crystalline blue sky. Summer's smog had given way to fall's crisp, clean air and the buildings looked so close he felt as if he could throw a rock and hit one. After gauging the distance, he conceded it would be impossible. He had a pretty good arm, but not that good.