Hank hadn’t wanted to broach that subject. He hesitated and then said, “We have yet to ascertain whether or not it’s related to the Shaft murder.”

The reporter persisted. “Do you have a suspect in that attempt?”

“Not yet. It’s a priority for us, and everything is being done to ensure their protection and the safety of the public.”

Lisa raised a hand and spoke. “Detective Corning, I understand Jake Lincoln was the intended victim in another shooting attempt today. Do you believe it’s the same perpetrator?”

Hank nodded. “We believe it is, and we expect to make an arrest shortly.” He leaned in to the mike. “You’ll be notified when we do. Please note, we have no reason to believe the general public is in any danger.” He picked up his notes. “That’s all for now.”

He turned from the podium and ignored further questions. He and Diego climbed the stairs and returned to the precinct as reporters moved away.

Hank turned to Diego. “We didn’t have much for them.”

“We had to give them something. That’ll keep them quiet for a while.” Diego headed for his office. “Keep me up to date,” he called over his shoulder.

Hank went back to his desk and dropped his notes into the wastebasket. He sat, pulled into his desk, and thumbed through the files pertaining to the case. He was frustrated, finding it hard to come up with an approach.

He was relieved from his thoughts when the front door opened and King strode in, a triumphant look on his face. Hank watched the detective approach his desk and sit in the guest chair. King sat back, folded his arms, and stretched out.

Hank looked at him. “Well, are you going to tell me?”

“Punky Brown,” King said.

“Punky Brown? Never heard of him.”

King shrugged. “That’s the name I got. Somebody hired him to kill the Lincolns.”

“Did your CI have any info on his whereabouts?”

King brushed back his greasy hair and sat forward. “Apparently, this Punky Brown character is not known to a lot of people. Word is, he’s trying to make a name for himself as a first class hitman.”

Hank frowned. “And how does your CI know him?”

King cleared his throat. “He’s kind of in the same business. Not a hitman per se, more of an enforcer than anything else.” He paused. “As far as I know he’s never killed anyone. I wouldn’t shelter a killer.”

“And so your CI is eager to give up his competition?”

King grinned. “Something like that.”

“Any idea how to find this guy?” Hank asked.

“No idea, but somebody must know something. Apparently, Brown’s not all as good as he claims to be. My CI says he’s too stupid to ever amount to anything, and Brown is more of a wannabe than anything else. Takes foolish chances. Doesn’t plan ahead. Things like that.”

“That could make him even more dangerous,” Hank said.

“Maybe. But it should also make him easier to find.”

Hank spun his chair around and wheeled over to Callaway’s desk.

“What can I do for you, Hank?”

“Can you find me anything on a guy named Punky Brown?”

Callaway tapped a few keys on his keyboard. He squinted at the monitor, tapped some more, and frowned. “Not finding anything, Hank.”

“It’s probably an assumed name,” Hank said. “Thinks it makes him sound tough.”

“There’re lots of guys named Brown in the system,” Callaway said, still peering at his monitor. “All across the country.”

“Give me a printout on any within a fifty mile radius,” Hank said. “It’s a long shot, but we’ll look into every one.”

“Will do. I’ll bring it over when I’m done.”

Hank spun back to his desk and looked at King. “Does your CI know what Brown looks like?”

King shook his head. “He has no idea. He’s never met him.”

“All right. Leave it with me,” Hank said. He slipped a sheet of paper from a file folder and handed it to King. “Here’s a list of everyone in the 9-ball tournament. See if you can find anything out about Shaft or Norton.”

King sighed and took the sheet. “This should be a real exciting job,” he said, as he stood and sauntered away.

Hank called Jake’s cell number. He figured Jake and Annie at least deserved to know the name of the guy who tried to kill them.

Chapter 23

Wednesday, 11:36 a.m.

JAKE HUNG UP the phone, went into the office, and dropped into a chair. Annie turned away from the monitor and leaned back. She looked curiously at her husband.

“Punky Brown,” Jake said.

“Who’s Punky Brown?”

“The guy who’s taking shots at us,” Jake answered. “Hank called me. Brown is a two-bit punk who thinks he’s a hitman. King got the name from one of his CIs.”

“Did they catch him?”

“No. The problem is, they don’t know who he is or what he looks like. All they have is a name.”

Annie dropped her elbows on the desk and clasped her hands together under her chin. “It’s a start.”

“Can you find anything on him?” Jake asked.

“Don’t hold your breath on that. If Hank has no info, I doubt if I can.” Annie’s brow tightened. “The bigger question is, who hired him?”

Jake stood and paced the office. If Brown is getting the word out about his services, then somebody has to know. But they had no contacts in that world—at least none who would talk to him.

He stopped pacing and spun to face Annie. “I know who might be able to help. Sammy Fisher.”

Annie chuckled. “It’s worth a shot.”

“I’ll go see if I can round him up right away. Want to come?”

Annie looked at her monitor, then at the file folders opened on the desk in front of her. “I think I’d do better to stay here and see what else I can come up with.”

“Suit yourself,” Jake said, looking at his watch. “I should be back in lots of time to pick up Matty and Kyle.” He turned and left the office, then poked his head back in. “If you go out, don’t forget to wear your vest.”

Annie assured him she would and he hurried to the basement. He pulled his own vest from a shelf, blew off the dust, and examined it. The covering had a hole in one spot, the padding indented where it stopped a bullet not so long ago. He was wearing it at the time, and it was a close call. He had no aspirations in seeing another hole in the vest. At least, not while he was wearing it.

He put it on over his t-shirt, putting a button-down shirt over top, and then grabbed his keys and headed out.

Another cruiser was parked in front, a different pair of cops inside. He waved at them as he pulled from the driveway and spun up the street, turning his thoughts to Sammy Fisher.

Sammy was an enigma. Homeless by choice, he’d helped the Lincolns a couple of times in the past. He always avoided Jake’s questions as to why someone obviously intelligent and well educated would choose a life on the streets.

There was more to Sammy than met the eye. He seemed to have contacts everywhere—in every alleyway, and behind every dumpster in the city. Every cardboard box converted into a home sheltered someone Sammy called a friend.

Jake turned onto Front Street and pulled over to the side, twenty feet short of where the overpass crossed Richmond River. He got out of the car, stepped down into a small ditch, and faced an embankment descending fifty feet to the gentle river below.

He climbed down a few feet, dipped under the overpass, and grinned. It looked like Sammy still lived there. What Sammy called “his castle” was nothing more than a ten by ten excavation, burrowed into the embankment where the ground met the underside of the overpass, tucked back behind the concrete pillars.

A dirt-brown tarp camouflaged the doorway, sheltering it from the elements, and made the quarters invisible to all except those who knew it was there.

Jake pulled the tarp aside, peeked into the darkness, and chuckled.