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Authors: Rayven T. Hill
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envelope.
He held up the bag, the sadness in his eyes replaced by a look of deep pain. “I really shouldn’t be showing you this, Annie,” he said. “But since we’re friends, I have to tell you what Detective King found in the garage.”
Annie stared at the bag.
“It’s money. Twenty-eight hundred dollars.” He paused, then continued, “It was found in Jake’s tool chest. If you add it to the two thousand Jake was carrying, it’s the exact amount taken at the bank robbery.”
Annie’s mouth dropped open, and her wide eyes stared at the impossible evidence.
Hank continued, “The hundreds taken at the robbery are marked, and the serial numbers were recorded. We’ll have to check these against the list to be sure, but on the surface, it doesn’t look good.”
Now Annie had to make a decision—either to believe in her husband’s innocence, or to accept the overwhelming evidence against him as the truth.
The latter was inconceivable, the former the only choice to make.
“He’s innocent,” Annie said in a firm voice. “You’ll see.”
Hank stood and went to the door. “I hope you’re right,” he said, glancing back at her. “I sure hope you’re right.”
She looked meekly at the cop. “Can I have my car back?”
Hank’s shoulders slumped and he turned to face her. “It … it’s evidence,” he said, then sighed deeply and opened the door. “I’ll see what I can do.”
She watched Hank and the other three cops get in their vehicles and drive away.
And now, it was up to her. She had to find Jake. Or wait until he found her. Then, together, they could get this ridiculous situation straightened out.
Chapter 12
Tuesday, 2:35 p.m.
JAKE HAD SPENT THE last two or three hours making his way through the city, taking side streets and alleys as much as possible, working his way north. He was sure the police would have a BOLO out on him by now, and the snow-white jumpsuit he wore would be a dead giveaway to any cop on the prowl.
When he hit Front Street, he wondered why he hadn’t thought of the idea sooner. It was a warm day, so he went into a small neighborhood park and ducked behind a group of bushes, obscured from the eyes of any passersby. He stripped off his jumpsuit, then tugged and pulled, managing to rip off the top half of the suit. When he put it back on and rolled up the pant legs, he figured no one would look at him twice. His outfit looked a little odd, but he could pass for just another jogger out for some afternoon exercise.
He had to get somewhere safe and think this whole thing through. He’d been framed for attempted murder, possibly even murder, and with his best friend against him, there were very few people he could turn to.
First, he needed some clothes and some form of transportation. Just about anything would be suitable—a bicycle, a motorcycle, or a car.
He had no money and no phone. He had to live on the streets, at least for the time being, but he knew exactly where to go.
Homeless by choice for reasons he hadn’t cared to share, his friend Sammy Fisher was the obvious guy to turn to. Sammy knew the streets inside and out, sharing a kinship with those who called cardboard boxes and alleyways their homes. The quaint but lovable man had been helpful to Lincoln Investigations in the past, and at the very least, Sammy would help him get something to wear.
Jake continued along Front Street, turning his head away whenever he met a pedestrian or when a vehicle breezed by. He was in the open now, and he was ready to run should a cop happen to drive by and get the notion to stop and question him.
A few minutes later, he neared the Richmond River overpass. He hopped a low barrier and faced a steep embankment. A hundred feet below, the river flowed south toward Lake Ontario. It was a pleasant spot, and it was Sammy’s backyard.
Jake eased down twenty feet, ducked under the overpass, and smiled when he saw the place where Sammy
He held up the bag, the sadness in his eyes replaced by a look of deep pain. “I really shouldn’t be showing you this, Annie,” he said. “But since we’re friends, I have to tell you what Detective King found in the garage.”
Annie stared at the bag.
“It’s money. Twenty-eight hundred dollars.” He paused, then continued, “It was found in Jake’s tool chest. If you add it to the two thousand Jake was carrying, it’s the exact amount taken at the bank robbery.”
Annie’s mouth dropped open, and her wide eyes stared at the impossible evidence.
Hank continued, “The hundreds taken at the robbery are marked, and the serial numbers were recorded. We’ll have to check these against the list to be sure, but on the surface, it doesn’t look good.”
Now Annie had to make a decision—either to believe in her husband’s innocence, or to accept the overwhelming evidence against him as the truth.
The latter was inconceivable, the former the only choice to make.
“He’s innocent,” Annie said in a firm voice. “You’ll see.”
Hank stood and went to the door. “I hope you’re right,” he said, glancing back at her. “I sure hope you’re right.”
She looked meekly at the cop. “Can I have my car back?”
Hank’s shoulders slumped and he turned to face her. “It … it’s evidence,” he said, then sighed deeply and opened the door. “I’ll see what I can do.”
She watched Hank and the other three cops get in their vehicles and drive away.
And now, it was up to her. She had to find Jake. Or wait until he found her. Then, together, they could get this ridiculous situation straightened out.
Chapter 12
Tuesday, 2:35 p.m.
JAKE HAD SPENT THE last two or three hours making his way through the city, taking side streets and alleys as much as possible, working his way north. He was sure the police would have a BOLO out on him by now, and the snow-white jumpsuit he wore would be a dead giveaway to any cop on the prowl.
When he hit Front Street, he wondered why he hadn’t thought of the idea sooner. It was a warm day, so he went into a small neighborhood park and ducked behind a group of bushes, obscured from the eyes of any passersby. He stripped off his jumpsuit, then tugged and pulled, managing to rip off the top half of the suit. When he put it back on and rolled up the pant legs, he figured no one would look at him twice. His outfit looked a little odd, but he could pass for just another jogger out for some afternoon exercise.
He had to get somewhere safe and think this whole thing through. He’d been framed for attempted murder, possibly even murder, and with his best friend against him, there were very few people he could turn to.
First, he needed some clothes and some form of transportation. Just about anything would be suitable—a bicycle, a motorcycle, or a car.
He had no money and no phone. He had to live on the streets, at least for the time being, but he knew exactly where to go.
Homeless by choice for reasons he hadn’t cared to share, his friend Sammy Fisher was the obvious guy to turn to. Sammy knew the streets inside and out, sharing a kinship with those who called cardboard boxes and alleyways their homes. The quaint but lovable man had been helpful to Lincoln Investigations in the past, and at the very least, Sammy would help him get something to wear.
Jake continued along Front Street, turning his head away whenever he met a pedestrian or when a vehicle breezed by. He was in the open now, and he was ready to run should a cop happen to drive by and get the notion to stop and question him.
A few minutes later, he neared the Richmond River overpass. He hopped a low barrier and faced a steep embankment. A hundred feet below, the river flowed south toward Lake Ontario. It was a pleasant spot, and it was Sammy’s backyard.
Jake eased down twenty feet, ducked under the overpass, and smiled when he saw the place where Sammy
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