Personal Justice

“What about your wife?” A

“Tammy doesn’t know anything about this at all.”

“We talked to Tammy, Mr. Norton. She finally admitted you assaulted her on occasion.”

Norton sighed. “We argued a lot and sometimes things got physical. I’ll admit that, but there’re a few marks on me as well.”

“Why should I believe that?”

“You don’t have to. It’s unfortunate, yes, but it has nothing to do with any of this.”

“Fair enough,” A

“By proving Rocky Shaft’s guilt.”

“Of course, but all the evidence is stacked against you. Nothing against him.”

“There has to be something.”

“Mr. Norton,” A

“Because, like you said, all the evidence is stacked against me. With me dead, and perhaps my body buried somewhere forever, the case will be closed, and my guilt will be proven as far as the police are concerned.”

“So Rocky frames you, you disappear, and it’s game over. Case closed.”

“Exactly.”

A

“Leave it with me,” she said. “I’ll see what I can come up with.”

“One favor, Mrs. Lincoln?”

“Yes?”

“Leave my wife out of this. I don’t want her to be concerned for my safety.”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

“I’ll pay your fees once you clear me. Don’t worry about that.”

“We’re already being paid by Maria Shaft to look into this.”

“Yes, I know. I saw that on the news, but it’s worth it to me if you clear my name.”

“I’ll do my best,” A

Norton thanked her and hung up. She put the phone down thoughtfully. This was an interesting development indeed.

She picked up the phone again and called Hank’s cell.

“Detective Hank Corning.”

“Hank, I got a phone call from Michael Norton. He claims he’s i

Hank whistled. “That could put a whole new light on things. Hold onto it and I’ll pick it up as soon as I can.”

“I’ll make a copy right now and have it ready,” A

Chapter 25

Wednesday, 12:49 p.m.

AS SOON AS JAKE arrived home, A

He followed her in, eased into the guest chair, and sat dumbfounded as she played back the phone call from Michael Norton.

“I’ve got a copy ready for Hank,” she said. “We’ll see what he makes of it.”

Jake sat quietly a moment, trying to digest what he heard. “It all sounds logical,” he said at last. “And if it’s the whole truth, then Rocky Shaft has covered his tracks pretty well.”

“I’m sure he slipped up somewhere. We have to find out where,” A

“He’s good. He sends his greetings. He’s still living in the same castle, and he says—” His voice trailed off, interrupted by the ringing of his cell phone. It was Sammy Fisher.

“I have some good news for you, Detective Jake.”

Jake put the phone on speaker. “Already?”

Sammy chuckled. “I’ve been living out here a long time,” he said. “I make it my business to get to know people, and I know how to ask subtle questions. I knew exactly who to turn to for answers this time.”

“What did you find out?” Jake asked.

“You’re right about Punky Brown being a two-bit hood. He’s not shy about making it known he aspires to be a hitman. People I talked to said he just got out of prison where he claimed to learn a thing or two. He’s been putting the word out among the darker criminal elements—you want somebody done? Call Punky.” Sammy laughed. “Sounds like a cheap business card.”

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 A

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.

A

“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 A

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 A

In a moment he was back, a crooked grin on his face. “Do you know where Smokie’s Bar is?”

A

“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.”