Senior sat up and put the business end of the barrel through the custom hole in the side of the van, just under the windows in the back. He squinted through the scope, drew a bead on his target, exhaled, and squeezed the trigger. When he did, the silenced bullet smashed through Rhonda Rhodes’ sternum and chewed through her chest organs like the Big C on speed.
The waiter had gone behind the counter to put Rhonda’s cash in the till and brew another pot of their house blend. As he turned back around he saw Rhonda walk out the door and down the sidewalk toward her car. When the bullet hit her chest it lifted her from the pavement and tossed her back, her arms and legs flying forward. The waiter would later tell the police it looked like-at least for a moment-that her body hung in the air in the shape of a big C, and wasn’t that ironic because that what she always called it, the big C. But the cops didn’t care about irony so the waiter decided he would not tell them of his comment to Rhonda about her living forever, because as anyone will tell you, with the cops, you just never really know.
So, as it went, the waiter was wrong, but Rhonda’s prayers were answered. She went quick, dead before she hit the ever-lasting pavement. The hole in her chest left a red stain on her throwback whites that looked like a rose petal on a blanket of snow in the middle of an otherwise fine summer day.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The court was not on schedule and I ended up waiting at the courthouse for just shy of three hours for testimony in a previous case. My cell phone was set on silent but I felt the vibration and pulled the phone out and checked the screen. A text from Ron Miles. After I read the message I leaned forward across the bar and tapped the prosecutor on the shoulder. “I’ve got a situation,” I said. “I need to leave.”
“You’re joking, right? We’ve got a situation right here. It’s your testimony that’s gonna keep this prick locked up. You want to blow that?”
“It can’t be helped. I’m in the middle of this thing and I’ve got to go.”
The prosecutor turned in his chair and looked at me. “Look, I know we’re behind schedule here, but the defense is just about to wrap it up, then we’ll be able to get you on the stand and out of here. If you’ll just wait for a little-”
The judge tapped her gavel, leaned forward from the bench and spoke into her microphone. She sort of whispered into the device, and it sounded like she was either mocking my attempt not to disturb the proceedings, or trying to be funny. Most likely it was the former. “Gentlemen, is there something you’d like to share with the court?”
The prosecutor turned his attention forward. “No, your Honor. I’m sorry for the-”
I stood from my seat and looked at the Judge. “Your Honor, may I approach the bench?”
The prosecutor turned back to me and spoke through his teeth. “What the hell are you doing? Do you want to be held in contempt? Sit down.” The judge raised her eyebrows at me.
“Urgent matter, your Honor.”
She seemed to consider this for a moment, then said, “Step up. This better be good Detective.”
I crossed the bar with the prosecutor on my heels and walked up to the bench. “I appreciate the Court’s indulgence your Honor.” The judge made a circular motion with her hand in a ‘get on with it’ sort of way. The prosecutor, I noticed, had taken a sudden interest in the tops of his shoes. “Judge, a somewhat urgent situation has come to my attention. I’m sure your Honor has heard about the murders earlier today of one of our State Troopers, along with one of our city’s more prominent citizens, Mr. Franklin Dugan, at his home.”
The judge leaned forward and looked at me over the top of her glasses. Judge Andrea Moore was the senior judge in the superior court system and was not known for her leniency.
“Yes, Detective. I have heard. But what does that have to do with me, my court, or this case?”
“Nothing at all your Honor.”
“Then why are we speaking, Detective?”
This wasn’t going exactly as I had hoped. “Your Honor, it has just come to my attention that there has been another murder, just a few blocks away from here as a matter of fact. My-”
“Are you psychic, Detective?”
“Uh, beg your pardon, your Honor?”
“I said are you psychic? You as well as anyone should know we do not allow electronic devices of any kind in the courtroom. So, either you’re psychic, or you’re breaking the law in my courtroom. Which is it, Detective?”
I opened my mouth to answer, then thought better of what I wanted to say and chewed on the inside of my cheek for a moment instead.
The judge leaned back, smacked her gavel against the sound block and said, “The court will be in recess for five minutes. Detective, I’ll see you in chambers. Now.”
Thirty seconds later Judge Moore sat at her desk while I stood on the other side. “You’re killing me here, Jonesy. I’m already over three hours behind. What the hell is going on?”
“I need to leave, Andrea. There’s been another shooting, and that makes three today.”
“Oh come on, Jonesy. This is Indy. We have shootings almost everyday. What makes this such an emergency?” She reached for a pitcher of water and poured two glasses. “Water?”
“No, thanks. Listen, we’re not sure, at least completely sure that is, that this latest one is connected. But the crimes scene techs are saying, and initial witness statements seem to back it up, that it was a high powered sniper rifle. And it was silenced. Broad daylight, lady goes down right on the sidewalk, shot in the chest, and no one heard a thing. What are the chances?”
“It sounds to me like you’ve got plenty of people on the scene right now.”
I took a deep breath. “Judge…” He paused, then started over. “Andrea, do you remember last year when you came to me about that little high speed chase your son was involved in?”
“It was hardly a high speed chase, Detective. He was a passenger in the vehicle, and he says, and I believe him by the way, that he did everything in his power to convince the driver to stop the car.”
“Uh huh. Took him over four miles to do it though.”
“Make your point, Jonesy.”
“My point is, you brought that to me, and I took care of it for you, did I not?”
“Really? You’ve got this one bit of juice with me and this is how you want to spend it?”
No, I don’t. “I guess I’ll have to,” I said.
“Alright, take off then. Use the side door. I’ll handle the lawyers.”
“Are you going to reschedule for a later date on the docket?”
“Are you kidding? No way. The prosecutor doesn’t need you, and the ink isn’t even dry on the public defender’s Bar exam. The defendant isn’t going anywhere except back to a cell.”
“So I wasted my, uh, ‘juice’, as you called it?”
“Yep. Ain’t it fun though? I hate it when someone has something on me. Anyway, we’re square now. Go catch your shooter, sharp stuff. I don’t like it when people shoot up my city.”
“It may be your courtroom, Andrea, but it’s my city,” I said as I reached for the door handle. “Stop in at the bar sometime, I’ll buy you a beer.” The judge made a go away motion with the back of her hand, so I went away.
Ten minutes later I rolled up to the scene and found Ron Miles speaking with two uniforms from the city. “Jonesy, Jesus Christ. What a cluster fuck. I’m trying not to get ahead of myself here, but this is too coincidental, don’t you think?” He pressed on before I could answer. “First Burns, and that banker guy, Dugan, and now this.” He turned and pointed at the victim laying on the sidewalk. I followed his motion and then looked inside the plate glass windows of the coffee shop. Three uniforms and two plain clothes were inside talking to the patrons.
“Tell me what’s what, Ron.”
“Okay. Victim’s name is Rhonda Rhodes. I.D. on her person confirms. Looks like she was a Hospice nurse according to documents in her possession and initial statements from the coffee shop’s employees. She’s a regular here. Five or six days a weeks, again according to the employees. Married, husband is a retired fireman.”
“He have an alibi?”
