THE
SHOOTER
PETER O’MAHONEY
The Shooter: A Gripping Crime Thriller
Peter O’Mahoney
Copyright © 2021
Published by Roam Free Publishing
1st edition.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior permission in writing of the publisher. This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to any person, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
THE SHOOTER
JACK VALENTINE SERIES BOOK 3
PETER O’MAHONEY
Also by Peter O’Mahoney
*****
In the Jack Valentine Series:
Gates of Power
Stolen Power
*****
In the Tex Hunter Series:
Power and Justice
Faith and Justice
Corrupt Justice
Deadly Justice
Natural Justice
*****
In the Bill Harvey Legal Thriller Series:
Redeeming Justice
Fire and Justice
Will of Justice
A Time for Justice
Truth and Justice
*****
Chapter 1
Nothing ever prepares you for the smell of death.
It’s a stench, a rancid stink that soaks into your nostrils, tickles your throat, and tempts you to gag. It’s a rank and pungent odor that thickens the air with anguish, soaking into your clothes. No amount of holding your breath, distraction, or perfume can stop the attack on the senses. There’s a scientific reason for the putrid smell, the breakdown of amino acids in the deceased, but no matter which way you describe it, no matter how many times you read about it, nothing prepares you for that first hit.
Standing in the foyer of the exclusive Five-Five apartment building on the west side of the Chicago River, I took a number of deep breaths, trying to calm myself. I knew the smell would be soaked into the walls of the apartment I was about to walk into. In my years as a private investigator, I’d like to say that I’ve gotten used to, at least accustomed to, the smell, but that would be a lie. The smell still gets me every time.
The rising sun threw a dirty orange glow over the Chicago skyline as I waited in the foyer. I leaned against the wall near the elevators, looking out the window, a sense of despondency washing over me as I watched people on the sidewalk, unaware, caught up in their own worlds, ignorant of the violence that was only a short distance away. The Five-Five, so named after its address on North Clinton St. in West Loop Gate, only a stone’s throw from Downtown Chicago, was a recently constructed fashionable residence, reserved for those with enough excess cash to waste on grand opulence. The spacious foyer was as large as my apartment, although my apartment didn’t have tiled floors, spotless walls, or fancy lights hanging from the ceiling. Nor did it have a doorman, security cameras, or fancy elevators. But none of that excessive display of wealth was going to change what I was about to walk into.
“This is a nice place, Jack.” Casey May, the partner in my private investigation firm, said as she stepped through the revolving doors into the foyer. I grunted my response. “Hmm,” she continued. “I can see someone has their grumpy pants on today. No time for a coffee?”
I eyed one of the cardboard cups in her hands with ‘Professor Coffee’ scrawled across it.
“Cut the chirpiness, Casey. It’s way too early. If you want to do more case work, as partners, then you’d better understand that mornings aren’t the ideal time to talk to me.”
“Oh, those clients are just so damned inconsiderate, getting you out of bed before the alarm.” Casey moved towards me and held out one of the cups, smiling broadly. “For you. I got it from the little place across the street while I was waiting. Professor Coffee. Nice staff in there. Friendly. Mine’s a decaf because I’m cutting back. Now come on, as much as I love standing here marveling at the nuances of morning life with you, someone has to help this poor man upstairs.”
I took the coffee, thanked her, and then savored the first sip. We’d received the phone call the night before from a man desperate for help. A defense lawyer had reportedly shot himself in his apartment, but his friend and law firm colleague, Kenneth Daley, was sure that it was murder. Daley pleaded with the cops to investigate the death further, to at least look at the other options, but they wouldn’t listen. For the cops, it was open and shut—a single, middle-aged defense attorney had enough of this life and decided to end it all. The cops only spent a day on the case before they closed the file.
“Who cuts back on coffee?” I asked as we walked towards the elevators. “What sort of madness is that?”
“That’s your biggest concern right now? My caffeine intake? Not the possible murder on the top floor?” Casey raised an eyebrow.
Casey had recently dyed her hair darker, from blonde to a dark brunette, and it suited her. Although she only came up to my shoulder, most people did, she could still intimidate a lot of people. I’d first met Casey through her investigative journalism when she approached me for advice on bugging devices. We just clicked. I liked her no-nonsense way of dealing with things, and soon she was my assistant, and now, she was a partner in the business.
“Nice hair color. I like it.” I commented. “It suits you.”
“I’d suggest that you dye your hair, but those new touches of gray hair sort of suit you as well. Makes you look less immature.” She winked. She was tempting fate by teasing me this early in the morning, but I let it slide. As the elevator arrived, we entered, and Casey pressed floor number twenty-five for the penthouse. “So, this could be a high profile one, Jack. Big money in these parts.”
“That’s why you’re here.” I
