The Highest Stakes

Book 4: Jack Murphy Thriller

by Rick Reed

Genres: Police Procedurals; Suspense

Synopsis

An Indiana detective is out to stop a killer for hire who tortures for pleasure in this crime thriller from an author who “writes as only a cop can” (Nelson DeMille).

In Detective Jack Murphy's experience, the killers who blend in are the hardest to catch. But none are as elusive—or efficient—as Mr. Smith. A man of average height, weight and build, Mr. Smith is as ordinary as his name. Which makes it easy for him to get close to his targets. And that's when he reveals how uniquely twisted he truly is.

Mr. Smith kills without conscience—and with apparent pleasure. Using every weapon at his disposal, he's raising the stakes in a global game of terror and death. Mr. Smith is no ordinary killer. But Jack Murphy is no ordinary cop . . .

Release date: October 25, 2016

Publisher: Lyrical Press

Print pages: 324

Sample

Chicago’s financial district

The late July downpour in Chicago’s financial district didn’t stop the workforce from hurrying about their daily tasks. The sudden storm had blown in from Lake Michigan, and umbrellas blossomed like spring flowers. Women who came to work unprepared held scarves over their heads, the men pulled up coat collars, and like an army of worker ants they streamed along the sidewalks, impervious to the rain, to each other—and to Mr. Smith sitting inside the shiny black Hummer.

Smith was of average height, weight, and build with mousy brown hair that was cut not too long and not too short. He wore a dark suit like so many others. Only the lifeless gray eyes were remarkable. Behind heavily tinted windows, he watched through the intermittent movement of the wiper blades.

The Hummer was parked facing north at LaSalle and Quincy Streets in front of the Potbelly Sandwich Shop. The Willis Tower loomed in the west, the Chicago River two blocks farther on, and behind him at Lake Street the steel and wood El tracks rose above the streets. Directly in front of him was the beating heart of the financial district. The Chicago Board of Trade sat at the southernmost end of LaSalle, and the old Continental Bank building with its grand columns cattycorner. The Federal Reserve of Chicago was directly across from that. Together they formed a financial tricorner hat of sorts.

A block in front of the Hummer, a deli truck was parked on the corner with a man in a white apron and white butcher hat hawking his goods. A block distant from the deli truck on the front sidewalk of the Federal Reserve was the old-fashioned telephone booth he had under surveillance. In the last hour he had seen dozens of people duck into the booth for less than a minute while they put something in a briefcase or a purse or pulled coats over their heads before venturing out again. He felt the rumble of the subway beneath the street, while above, throngs of people crowded and pushed along the wide sidewalks. The average person made it through each day by pure luck and not by any skill or alertness. Those hapless souls had no inkling of what was to come.

He was told his real target would be in that particular phone booth at precisely noon. At twelve on the dot, a middle-aged man dressed in a smart suit came out of the Federal Reserve building, pulled the collar of his jacket up, and held a newspaper over his head as he walked directly for the telephone booth. He pushed at the bifold doors, rolled the newspaper up and put it under his arm, and then entered the glass and aluminum rectangle.

Smith started the Humvee and put it in drive. He punched a number into a prepaid cell phone and hit the send button. The shock wave from the blast rocked the Humvee. He watched as bodies were thrown about like rag dolls, some landing on the sidewalk, some hurled into the street and run over by panicked drivers. Pieces of those closest to the blast stuck to the hood and windshield of his car almost two blocks distant from the explosion. When the smoke cleared, he could see the a crater in the concrete where the phone booth had stood.

Those lucky enough to live ran in every direction. Others crawled or rolled around, their clothing aflame, their flesh melted by the heat. Some would die later, internal organs damaged from the blast.

A woman staggered out of the smoke and stumbled against his window. The left half of her face was gone. She clawed at the door and collapsed, leaving a smear down the window.

He allowed himself a smile before the next explosion came from below the street in the subway. Iron grates and manhole covers blew into the air all down the block and flipped end over end like coins before thudding to the ground. Another timed explosion came from behind him, herding the crowd south along LaSalle toward the El tracks, where a special surprise waited them. Like any fireworks display there was always a finale.

It was beautiful.

Washington, D.C.

Three blocks north of the National Cathedral in the nation’s capital, Smith waited for Pamela to come home. He’d driven straight through, his route taking him south from Chicago and east through Indianapolis and then Columbus, Ohio, and on into Washington. It was dark when he’d arrived. He left the lights off, poured some Scotch, and wandered through the condo. He could smell her scent in every room.

He’d met Pamela in D.C. a year ago while he was in between assignments. She tended bar at a downtown nightclub named Madam’s Organ. They talked, and she told him she was a political science major at George Washington University with dreams of working in the government, maybe for a congressman. He’d introduced himself as Alex Stanhope, a day trader. The Stanhope cover was clean, with a Virginia driver’s license, a condo, credit cards, and even some debt, and his employers were unaware it existed. Like many of his peers, he had squirreled away several sets of clean IDs, with passports and cash. In between jobs he needed to disappear. Needed privacy. Needed anonymity. He had found what he needed in D.C., hiding in plain sight, so to speak.

His mentor had a saying, “Never shit in your own milk.” So when he awoke beside Pamela the next morning he was surprised. Not by the fact he’d slept with a beautiful woman, but that he had invited her back to his condo and let her stay the night. Instinct told him to kill her. But he hadn’t.

He found he enjoyed her company, so he had violated another of his rules and let her live with him as part of his cover. She went to school days, worked the club at night, and he stayed with her as often as possible. She never questioned his prolonged absences, or his need for angry sex immediately upon his return. His cover job explained his frequent absences and narcissistic lifestyle. Lying about who he was and what he did was like taking a breath, involuntary yet necessary.

In Columbus, Ohio, he was Daniel Whitcomb, who ran a successful consulting business. In Seattle, he was Professor Douglas Levin, on sabbatical from Shoreline College, where he taught criminal justice. There were many others, and in each location someone to complete his cover. But his employers, down to the smallest detail, had manufactured these identities. Had assigned the women who acted as his girlfriend, sister, wife, et cetera. Only in D.C. was he Alex Stanhope.

He was taking a risk with Pamela, but keeping his employers in the dark was extremely satisfying. The killings in Chicago were also satisfying. He had been held in check far too long. Like a bull in a pen, he longed to be released, to run rampant, to charge everything and create fear.

And then 9/11 came along. If he believed in God he would have thanked Him because the rules had relaxed in the aftermath, and the bean counters’ coffers were filling. Then someone had the bright idea of creating even more federal agencies in the name of combating terrorism, and to coordinate investigations among the already burgeoning system. As a result the funding had slowed to a trickle, information was even more jealously guarded, and no one had benefited.

Finally the Agency had turned him loose. The “terrorist attack” on Chicago would ensure their coffers were filled to overflowing. He was like Hercules unchained, doing what he was born to do. But he was no fool. He’d been at this too long to believe they would let him continue for long before chaining him again. He was lifting the heavy loads while the pussies in the Agency were wringing their hands and crying like old women. Or more likely, planning damage control, eliminating any thread of connection between themselves and the Chicago incident, and he was one of those threads. Time to move again.

The condo was dark. He looked at the luminous face of his watch, then silenced the ticking of the wall clock. Sitting on the sofa, he closed his eyes, and let his senses take over. Pamela would be walking in the door at exactly one a.m. He would have to kill her and leave Alex Stanhope behind. Such a waste.

He heard the hum of the elevator and the soft clattering as its doors opened. Too early. Soft footfalls came down the hall. Two sets. Not the high heels Pamela wore. The steps paused. The light coming from beneath the door went out as a key slipped in the door’s lock.

He knelt beside the sofa and retrieved the handgun from underneath, thumbed the safety to the “fire” position, then hurried into the bathroom. He stood in the dark with his back against the wall and used the medicine cabinet mirror to watch the front door.

The snick of the lock turning was barely audible. Soft-soled shoes, more than one set, moved into the condo. In the mirror he saw two black shapes. One tall, one short, a faint green glow floating around their faces. Night vision.

Night-vision technology is designed to magnify ambient light, so when Smith flipped the light switches on, the intruders were as blinded as if staring into the sun. Gloved hands scrabbled for goggles, but before they could pull them off, Smith shot the closest one in the throat just under the chin and the other in the mouth. Both targets were down, unmoving.

He stood between them and examined the bodies. Both wore dark clothing, balaclavas over their heads with night-vision goggles covering their eyes and 9mm Glocks fitted with silencers in their hands. Their equipment and weapons were all the explanation he needed for why they had come. Cleaners.

They were from the Agency, or maybe hired guns. In either case, their purpose was to eliminate him and erase any evidence he had ever existed. Good equipment, sloppy execution. He was insulted the Agency hadn’t sent a better team, and a little angry they thought he would be that easy to dispose of.

The short one seemed familiar. He knelt beside the slender athletic body and removed the goggles and lifted the balaclava. He felt emotions he hadn’t felt since he was a child. Embarrassment. Shock. Disbelief.

It was Pamela. His Pamela.

He looked out the window for signs of a backup team. Traffic was light. No parked cars. No one on the street. But he knew at least two more were waiting. Any minute they would know the first team had failed and they would come for him. This time they would come better armed, and they would come hard.

He went to the massive wooden entertainment center, lifted the plasma television out, and tossed it to the side. In the back of the cabinet was a wall safe. He worked the combination and opened an inch-thick steel door, revealing another silenced pistol, several passports, other identification and credit cards, and stacks of twenty- and hundred-dollar bills.

He stacked everything in a briefcase and stuffed his wallet with the Alex Stanhope identification in the dead man’s back pocket. If Pamela worked for the same people he did, she had already reported his Stanhope cover. She may have also found this hidey-hole and reported all his aliases to the Agency. It was what he would have done.

She also would have recorded the serial numbers on the money, but he would have to chance it for now. The last item he removed from the safe was a small canister resembling a can of shaving cream. It was an incendiary device that could be detonated remotely. The condo would burn and eliminate most of the evidence. With any luck they would find Alex Stanhope’s wallet beneath the burned body of the male agent. It would only confuse things for an hour, maybe less, but he needed the diversion.

On his way out of the condo he stopped and stood over Pamela. He looked down into her face. He knew now why he had liked her better than the other women he’d been with. She was like him.

He went to the open door and turned the condo’s lights off. He peeked into the dark hallway. Nothing moved. He thought about using the night-vision goggles, but it hadn’t worked out well for the two inside. He stepped into the hallway. Left, it was twenty feet to the stairs. Right, it was fifteen to the elevator. No professional would be waiting in the elevator. He turned toward the stairs.

He reached for the handle of the stairway door and saw it turning. He yanked the door open and shot the startled man in the throat. As that one lay gagging on his own blood, another man looked up the stairwell and was dispatched with a double tap to the face. He shot them both once more in the head and descended the stairs.

He pushed the button on the remote and heard a muffled explosion above. He stepped out the service door and into the alleyway. Once outside he scanned for other watchers. The street was empty except for an intoxicated couple getting into a D.C. cab. He walked to the cab’s open door and shot the couple multiple times and then shot the cabbie.

He pushed the woman’s leg inside and shut the passenger door. He then put the driver’s body inside the trunk and drove away. Just another late night in D.C.

Three weeks later, Evansville, Indiana

August was a bad month for Detective Jack Murphy, starting with some ex-military guys turned hit men and ending in a shoot-out where Jack thought he would be killed. Several people were killed, some good, some bad. In fact, the county prosecutor had died. Then the chief deputy prosecutor, second in command, had “flown the coop,” without a word to anyone, not even to Jack’s ex-wife, Katie, to whom he was engaged. Good riddance to the prick.

September was shaping up to be more of the same. The new prosecutor and new chief deputy prosecutor were pricks just like the old ones. But the worst thing of all was that he and Katie had almost gotten back together through all of this, but he’d blown it. It was a long story.

Katie wasn’t taking his calls, hadn’t taken his calls for several weeks, and even her sister, Moira, who had orchestrated them getting back together, was mad at him. “Sexist pig” was his new name, and that was the kind version.

Just when he thought it couldn’t get any worse he’d gotten a call from the prosecutor’s office asking that he come to a meeting to discuss an arrest he had made last night. Jack was expecting some repercussions for breaking the sick bastard’s jaw, but it felt like the right thing to do at the time, and he’d do it again given the same circumstances.

It was early enough that Jack hadn’t any trouble finding a parking place in one of the city council spots behind the Civic Center. He even walked through the unmanned security station that led to the judge’s chambers and the prosecutor’s office. He wondered why it wasn’t manned by security as soon as the Civic Center was opened for the day. But he didn’t make those decisions. Civilians with political aspirations and the right connections made them.

Jack entered the prosecutor’s offices unchallenged. The second set of doors that were normally locked was cracked open. He walked down the hall to where he remembered the conference rooms were located.

Moira Connelly’s office was just ahead on the left. He could tell she was in because he could hear music coming through the thin wall. Maybe she could tell him what this was about. He knocked on her door. The music stopped and a voice said, “Come in.”

He pushed the door open and found Moira doing Pilates in front of her desk. She was wearing a blue two-piece power suit with a red silk blouse. She straightened up and tucked the blouse in where it had come loose.

“Just getting warmed up before the meeting,” she said, a little out of breath.

“I always wondered what attorneys did before court,” Jack said with a grin.

Moira was Katie’s younger sister, and where Katie was short, like their mother, Moira was tall, like their father. Both women were beautiful, but a striking feature they shared was their bright red hair—thick, wavy, and long. Moira pushed her hair back into place and picked up a file from the top of her desk. She was settling in nicely to her job as deputy prosecutor.

She squeezed past him and out of the door. “Let’s get this party started,” she said and led the way down the hall.

Outside the conference room, she hesitated, her hand on the doorknob. Jack could hear men’s laughter coming from inside the room. She looked at Jack and said, “The new prosecutor went to law school with the defense attorney, Joe Miller. He might call him Boom Boom. That’s Miller’s nickname. Try to keep your temper.”

Miller wasn’t exactly a big gun as far as defense attorneys go. But he was ruthless and not above cheating, stealing, and lying to get his client off the hook. “What am I going to get mad about?” Jack asked, but Moira was already pushing the door open.

The new prosecutor’s name was Mike Higgins. He preferred being called Mr. Prosecutor. He was appointed to his position a few months ago after the last guy ate his gun. Higgins was a little guy with a giant ego, but so far Jack had no reason to dislike the man. All that was about to change.

The prosecutor was slumped behind the big conference table in a leather-covered office chair, feet on top of the table, and pretending to be reeling in a fish. By the looks of his mimicry, he was catching a “big” one. Higgins was new to Evansville, and even newer to holding a lofty office such as prosecutor of the third largest city in Indiana. He had come from Boston, where he had worked in the prosecutor’s office as one of the grunts. No one knew how he got this job.

Higgins’s voice was deep, and his laugh was infectious. That was deceptive because he could be laughing and smiling and that’s when you knew you were in his gun sights. His Boston accent was thick, and he had already earned a reputation for taking no prisoners. He was five-foot-five at best, and his prematurely graying hair didn’t match his boyish looks. All in all, Mike Higgins was a conundrum, but to Jack he was just another attorney that he was going to have to deal with sooner or later.

Higgins sat up when he noticed Jack and Moira and motioned them to come in. “This is Joe Miller,” he said, introducing the man who was standing in one corner of the conference room still holding his hands apart as if measuring something. “We were just reminiscing about a fishing trip to the Keys when we got out of law school.”

“I assume the fish got away,” Jack said to Higgins, with as little sarcasm in his voice as he could manage.

The two attorneys shared a look. “I told you he was a pistol, didn’t I?” Higgins said.

“I think the word you used, Mike, was ‘smart-ass,’ ” Miller said.

Miller was the exact opposite of his colleague in appearance. He was tall and heavyset with dark curly hair that swept back from his forehead and grew long and thick in the back in a mullet. His face was wide with jowls that shook when he talked. He reminded Jack of a basset hound—minus the dog drool.

“Have a seat, Murphy,” Higgins said.

Not Jack. Not Detective Murphy. This was going to be bad. Jack sat and Moira took a seat beside him.

The defense attorney, Miller, sat across from Jack. The prosecutor broke from tradition and was sitting beside the defense attorney. Any closer and they could hold hands, but Miller was all business now.

“We have a problem with the arrest you made last night,” Higgins said.

Moira looked down at the table with a neutral expression. Jack could feel his blood pressure rising.

“By ‘we’ do you mean the royal ‘We’?” Jack asked. “And are you referring to my arrest of a serial rapist last night? The one who’s put four of his victims in the hospital? The same one who’s been in the newspaper frightening the public for over a week?”

“That attitude is exactly why we’re here,” Higgins blurted out.

Miller put a hand on the prosecutor’s arm and said, “A picture’s worth a thousand words.” He produced several color photos from the manila folder and slid them across the table.

Jack glanced at several 5x7 color photos of a black male whose face was misshapen and whose eyes were swollen shut. Jack thought he looked like a praying mantis but kept that to himself. He knew the guy’s jaw was broken because his fist still hurt. He pushed the pictures back to Miller.

“Nate Cartwright,” Jack said. “I arrested him last night. So?”

Miller said, “This will never make it to court, my friend.”

Higgins sat stone-faced, arms crossed, saying nothing in Jack’s defense. Murphy knew what was going on here. The defense was brokering some kind of deal with the prosecutor.

Miller smiled and said, “My client is only guilty of having bad taste in women. He spurned her, and she attacked him in a jealous rage. He was defending himself and was actually glad the police arrived. And then you beat him while he was handcuffed because you, Detective Murphy, are a racist.”

Jack looked to the prosecutor to say something, but Higgins folded his hands on top of the table and remained silent.

Jack asked, “So how does your client explain the victim’s vaginal and anal tearing? How does he explain that he was completely naked and her pants and blouse were torn?”

Miller made a dismissive motion with one hand. “She did that to herself. My client was fighting for his life. His penis might have penetrated her vagina while he was trying to get away from her.”

“Are you really going to court with that bullshit?”

Higgins looked at Jack but addressed “Boom Boom,” his school chum. “Joe, if I drop your client’s charges to sexual battery, will you dismiss the federal charges you filed against Detective Murphy?”

“What charges?” Jack demanded.

Miller sat back in his seat and let Higgins explain. “Here’s the situation as I see it.” He leaned toward Jack, hands folded as if in prayer. “Your arrest of Mr. Cartwright wasn’t within police department guidelines. Even though Mr. Miller may be stretching things a bit far to suggest you beat Mr. Cartwright while he was handcuffed, we can’t ignore the fact that his jaw is broken and there are other injuries to his face that you admittedly caused. You stated so in your arrest affidavit. Your report simply says Mr. Cartwright resisted arrest. So it would leave a reasonable person to assume you would show some injuries too, and you look fine to me.”

Jack said nothing, waiting to hear what charges the defense had dreamed up.

The prosecutor continued. “Mr. Miller, acting on behalf of his client, who was too injured to speak to the FBI, filed a criminal complaint against you. He also filed a civil suit against you, the Evansville Police Department, the Vanderburgh County Jail, and my office. There will probably be an investigation by the Department of Justice Special Litigation Unit.”

“So that’s the real problem. This asshole is threatening to sue you.” Jack cocked his head to the side. “So I’m going to be arrested for getting a serial rapist off the street? A guy, who, by the way, I caught in the act. He goes free or I get charged.”

Higgins sat back in his chair and wouldn’t make eye contact with Jack.

Jack was past his anger and was becoming calm. It was the calm before the storm. He said, “The only reason I didn’t file ‘battery on a policeman’ charges on your client, Mr. Miller, was because he was already being charged with rape, aggravated assault, and sodomy.” Jack put his hands, palm down on top of the table. “Your client came at me in a rage because I was interrupting his fun. I tried to stop him but he flung his face into my fist several times. I defended myself, and I have proof,” Jack said straight-faced and pointed out the bruised knuckles on his left hand as evidence. “Maybe I should go to the ER and get checked out.”

Miller let out a deep sigh and said, “I guess we’re done here. See you in federal court, Detective Murphy.” He turned in the doorway and said, “I suggest you get yourself a good attorney, my friend.”

“Jack, wait.” Moira said catching up with him in the hallway. “I’m sorry, Jack. You know this wasn’t my call. Right?”

Jack was too angry to talk.

“I’ll talk to Mike. Maybe I can make him see reason.”

“Whatever,” Jack said.

“You didn’t do yourself any good in the meeting just now. Not every problem’s a nail, you know.”

“What does everyone expect me to do? If I use any force at all, the public crucifies me. If I don’t stop the criminal, I’m crucified. I’m starting to get a Jesus complex.”

“My boss can be a real jerk sometimes, but he really isn’t a bad guy. I think he’s afraid of any bad publicity.”

Jack could see her point. Mike Higgins was still learning the ropes with the prosecutor’s position, the city, and politics. The publicity of a lawsuit like this would be a death sentence for his career. He was new to the Midwest. To Evansville in particular. Jack would give him the benefit of the doubt. Unless, that is, Higgins was stupid enough to surrender and let a serial rapist have a free pass.

Moira said, “Maybe I’ll point out to him that he needs to recuse himself from the case since he’s best friends with the defense attorney.”

“You’re learning to play the game,” Jack said, and she smiled, taking his remark as a compliment. “That’s scary,” he added and she stopped smiling.

“I get it. You’re mad. But don’t take it out on me,” Moira said.

“I’m not taking it out on you,” he protested, but she gave him the look. “Okay, maybe I was taking it out on you a little, but I’m not angry.” He knew he couldn’t affect the prosecutor’s decision, so he decided to do what any good cop would do. He’d take his partner to eat copious amounts of donuts and violate some citizen’s rights while he was at it.

Her smile was back. “How’s Cinderella?” she asked.

“Cinderella’s fine. Plenty of shoes and furniture to eat. I’m waiting for her to go potty so I can look for a pair of cufflinks.”

Cinderella was Jack’s dog. She was sort of a mix between a large poodle and an alien. Jack had inherited her—sissy name and all—when her owner was murdered and she’d been left injured and homeless. Then a redneck police chief in Illinois had wanted to shoot her and Jack couldn’t allow that. Jack had made some excuse about the dog being evidence in a murder investigation and taken her to Evansville, first to his veterinarian friend, and then to his cabin. He hadn’t wanted a dog. Being an animal owner didn’t mix well with his job because of his uncertain hours.

Like the famous circus owner, P. T. Barnum, said, “A sucker is born every minute.” Jack knew he was that sucker. Cinderella was strong-willed, shedded constantly, chewed anything left on the floor, and sometimes left steaming presents in the shoes in his closet. She wouldn’t respond to any other name, a whistle, or even Jack’s “doggy-voice-of-doom.”

“Cinderella loves you, Jack,” Moira said.

“She didn’t bite me this morning,” He knew that way down deep inside, she really hated him. It had become his mission in life to make her love him. What’s not to love?

Jack needed something stronger but he’d settle for coffee. As usual the coffeepot in the detectives’ office was empty. He made an extra dark brew, found his mug, and filled it with the sinister black liquid. The oversize coffee mug was a gift from his partner, Liddell Blanchard. JACKENSTEIN was embossed on the side—a reference to the long scar that ran from just under Jack’s left ear, down his neck and across his chest ending at his right nipple. The injury had necessitated stitches and staples and a month of physical therapy and was a gift from Bobby Solazzo’s bowie knife. Jack, believing it was better to give than to receive, had given Bobby a gift that all the king’s horses and all the king’s men wouldn’t have been able to put back together.

Jack sat, sipped his coffee, and stared at a family photo on his desktop taken when he was a teenager. His mom and brother were smiling gaily. His dad was scowling. Jack was looking away with a bored expression. That snapshot told the history of the Murphy family pretty well. Since his father’s death, his mother had harped on him and his brother to settle down and bring some little Murphys into the family. She was like a tiny dog with a big bone, whittling them down with her sharp wit and even sharper remarks.

Another photo on the desk showed his father, Jake Murphy, in police uniform complete with eight-point cap, oak billy stick, and a wide leather gun belt that was canted from the weight of the big. 357 he carried. Murphys had been cops in Evansville since Great Grandpa Murphy came in through Ellis Island.

An unpleasant thought struck Jack. He might be the last gen. . .