Jake looked around for the men’s room, spied the sign at the far side, and strode across the room. He pushed the door open and stepped inside. No one was there.

He turned back and headed for the entrance, waving his thanks to the bartender as he strode by. He hurried out to the sidewalk and looked both ways. An old man hobbled up the street to his left, a couple of women to his right.

The sound of a motorcycle being kick-started caught his ears. He turned toward the sound and saw a familiar denim jacket, fifty feet away, past the old man.

It was him.

It was the guy who tried to kill Annie and him, and he was getting away.

Jake’s long legs sprang into action and he raced down the sidewalk as the bike eased forward. Five seconds later, his big hand had a fistful of denim, dragging the rider from the motorcycle. The bike went down and spun in front of an oncoming car. A horn blared and the vehicle swerved in time.

Jake dragged the man to his feet and whirled him around. His baseball cap soared away revealing a bald head, a gaunt face, and cold green eyes, widening with recognition.

It was Punky Brown, and he was reaching under his jacket.

Jake grasped him by the wrist, yanked his arm back, and a pistol clattered to the asphalt. Punky looked down at the weapon, then back up at Jake, his face contorted with anger. He struggled in vain to free himself from the viselike grip now holding both arms.

“Let me go,” the killer demanded through gritted teeth, his eyes burning with hatred.

Jake spun Punky back around, twisted his arms behind his back, and held them solidly in place with one hand. With the other, he did a quick frisk, checking for more weapons.

“You’re under arrest,” Jake said, forcing him to the sidewalk, face down. He held Punky solidly in place with a knee on his back, slipped out his cell phone, and called Hank’s number.

“I have our wannabe hitman,” Jake said when Hank answered. He gave the cop a quick briefing.

Hank was amazed and almost speechless. When he recovered, he said, “I can’t come right now, but I’ll contact dispatch and get the closest car there immediately. I’ll see you at the precinct. Don’t let him get away.”

Jake grinned. “He’s not going anywhere.”

Chapter 26

Wednesday, 1:41 p.m.

HANK SLID HIS chair back and watched as Punky Brown was led into the precinct. The would-be killer had a sullen, defiant look on his face. His chin jutted out, his eyes darting furiously about the room as if looking for an escape route.

Hank stood and intercepted the procession. “Take him to interview room one,” he said to the officer holding Brown firmly by the arm. “I’ll be right in.”

Punky glared at him briefly, then looked away as the officer marched him toward the back of the precinct.

Hank turned and grinned at Jake, a couple of steps behind. “Nice job.”

“It was him or us,” Jake said. “I had no choice.”

“Annie’ll be pleased.”

“I called her on the way over. She’s happy she doesn’t have to wear the vest anymore. Frankly, I am too.” He slugged himself in the chest. “Can’t wait to get this thing off.”

Hank chuckled. “Let’s see what I can get from this guy,” he said, and turned to Detective King who had wandered over. “Does he look familiar to you?”

King shook his head. “Never seen him before.”

Hank led the way across the floor and down a hallway at the back of the large room. He pushed open a door and turned to Jake. “You can watch from here.”

Jake went inside and King followed Hank into an adjacent room. The walls were bare, painted an off-white. A camera hung in one corner, pointed toward the center of the room. It would record everything said and done.

To their left, the upper half of the wall consisted of a large, two-way mirror. Jake would be watching with interest from the other side.

Punky Brown sat on a bench on the far side of a metal table, facing the mirror, his hands cuffed to a ring embedded in the table top. He glanced up briefly as the detectives entered, his surly expression unchanged.

King stood at the end of the table, spread his legs, and crossed his arms. Hank pulled back one of the chairs on the near side, dropped a file folder on the table, and sat down. He stared at the suspect. Punky stared back, his chin in the air.

Hank opened the folder, leafed through it casually, and then looked back up. “What’s your name?”

No answer.

“According to your driver’s license, your real name is Francis Spankly.” Hank grinned up at King. “Not the kind of name you would expect from such a tough guy as this.”

King leaned over the table and glared at Spankly. “The thing is, he’s not so tough without a gun in his hand.” The cop straightened up and laughed. “Are you, Mr. Spankly?”

The suspect attempted to jump to his feet, the cuffs stopping him from getting more than halfway. He glared up at King, hatred in his eyes. The detective put both hands on the suspect’s shoulders, forcing him back down. “Stay there, punk.”

Hank leaned in. “Who hired you to kill the Lincolns?”

Spankly spoke for the first time. His squeaky high-pitched voice came out as a whine. “I don’t know them.”

“Annie Lincoln knows you,” Hank said. “She can identify you as the man who entered her home, attempting to kill her.”

Spankly looked around the room, avoiding eye contact. “It wasn’t me. Probably somebody who looks like me.”

King laughed. “Nobody looks like you, Spankly.”

Hank knew lying to a suspect about evidence often got results, and he had no qualms about it in this case. “We have a slug from your pistol. As soon as ballistics compares it to your gun, we’ve got you.”

“I lent my gun to somebody. Must’ve been him.”

Hank glanced at the folder in front of him. “You fired on officers when you tried to kill Jake Lincoln. We have shell casings with your prints on them. That puts you at the scene.”

Spankly glared at Hank a moment, his eyes narrowed, then he looked away and was silent.

Hank leaned back. “We all know it was you, Spankly. But here’s the good thing. Maybe because you’re so inept, or maybe from sheer luck, but as far as we know, you never killed anyone.”

Spankly squeaked again, “That’s right. I never killed nobody.”

“Then all you have to do is tell us who hired you to kill the Lincolns.”

The suspect stared silently toward the mirror as if seeing right through it, his face flushed with anger—or was it fear? Or both?

King leaned in again, grabbed Spankly by two hands full of denim, and pulled him from his seat. The cuffs reached their limit and clunked against the metal ring. King glared down into the cold, green eyes from a distance of six inches. “You’re going down for two counts of attempted murder if you don’t talk to us.” King let go and Spankly dropped back into his seat.

“You’re not allowed to do that,” Spankly said, a sullen look on his face.

King shrugged. “That’s nothing. Wait until I get started.”

Hank leaned forward and spoke gently. “I think it would be safer for you if you talk to us.” He jerked a thumb toward King. “Detective King is kind of hard to control sometimes.”

The door opened and an officer poked his head in, a sheet of paper in his hand. He gave it to Hank and went back out, closing the door behind him.

Hank studied the paper, smiled, and looked back at Spankly. “Says here you just got out of prison. Paroled for good behavior. That’s hard to believe, but anything’s possible.” He laid the paper carefully on the table and leaned in. “Here’s the thing, Spankly. I could put you away right now for parole violations. Consorting with known ex-cons. Carrying a concealed weapon. That would give you an automatic three more years.”