Hell and Gone by Sam Wiebe

Author:Sam Wiebe
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: novel, fiction, crime, private investigator, Wakeland
ISBN: 9781550179644
Publisher: Harbour Publishing Co. Ltd.
Published: 2021-10-23T00:00:00+00:00

Thirty-Nine

Solidarity

Walking into the office the next morning, I felt a pang of anxiety. The new alarm system was still active, and I punched in the eight-digit code. I’d brought the Maglite with me, as well as a box of Cartems assorted for the meeting. After filling the kettle and flicking on the coffee machine, I set about clearing the renovators’ junk from the boardroom.

Jeff arrived at eight, followed five minutes later by Kay and Blatchford. My sister spied the box of donuts on the table and said, “Something must be wrong if you’re springing for pastries.”

“If you don’t want any…” I said.

She took a custard-filled and sat down.

Once we were all provisioned, I closed the door and stood by the whiteboard. I laid out what I’d seen the morning of the shooting, and what I planned to do about it.

“If anyone doesn’t want to be involved, I absolutely understand. These are dangerous people. One broke into the office and held me at gunpoint. Someone else shot up my apartment. If they suspect we’re looking for them, they might do worse.”

I looked at them each in turn. Kay nodded eagerly and took another donut. Jeff I couldn’t read. Blatchford crossed his arms and yawned.

“All right,” I said. Part of me wanted to thank them for the gesture of solidarity. Instead I quickly moved to the details of the case, remembering what I’d thought last night, about how rarely we take the time to let others know how we feel.

I wrote out the names of the shooters, the victims and the witnesses.

“The shooting was motivated by one of three things,” I said. “Money, status or straight-up execution. I think it’s status, and here’s why. The robbery yielded two to three hundred grand. Divided by five, that wouldn’t be worth the risk. A low-rent stickup man could walk up to a bank teller and clear almost that much.”

“Maybe they thought there’d be more,” Blatchford said. “Most people in the life don’t got a good grasp on money. Somebody could’ve shot their mouth off at a bar, what a big deal they are. It happens.”

“Sure,” I agreed. “But from how they acted, the shooters had some idea what they’d find in that room. None of the victims were high-­ranking or important, which puts a dent in the execution theory. They could have believed a top guy would be in the room, but I doubt it. Someone like Roy Long probably never sees that money until it’s cleaned up and laundered.”

Jeff shifted in his new chair, the twin of the one I’d destroyed while freeing myself. He caught me looking at him and raised his eyebrows innocently. Then he lifted the lid of the donut box as if that had been his goal all along. He chose the chocolate glazed.

“Status is most likely,” I said. “Unless Roy Long deals with the shooters, he looks weak. That would benefit someone trying to usurp control. Terry Rhodes and the Exiles, maybe.”

“Doesn’t have the feel of a biker hit,” Blatchford said.

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