An examination of the back of the victim’s shirt revealed small nicks and tears with ground-in dirt, consistent with the body being dragged a distance. To Hank, that meant Norton had been transported there in a vehicle, then dragged across the ground and deposited by the bushes. There was no other explanation he could see.

There were also lesions on the arms, face, and hands—nicks, bruises, and abrasions, probably defensive wounds, or at the least, an indication of a struggle.

Norton had fought and begged for his life and lost.

Blood alcohol levels, as well as blood and urine drug screens, were negative.

He closed the folder. Nothing else in the report revealed anything unusual, but he would go over it again later.

The ballistics report revealed exactly what Hank expected. The weapon Norton carried was the same one that fired the fatal bullet into Werner Shaft.

The bullet lodged in Norton’s heart was also .38-caliber, fired from a different weapon than the one found on the body. The ballistics ID system returned a negative. It was another unregistered weapon, never before used in a shooting as far as the system could tell.

That was all Jameson had for him at the moment. Hank hoped to see the rest of the findings later in the day. He was especially interested in the possibility of tire tracks and any trace evidence recovered from the scene. With the lack of surveillance cameras anywhere in the area, and no witnesses to be found, he hoped for something solid from forensics.

Hank looked up as Callaway approached his desk and handed him a sheet of paper. “I got the bank records on Rocky Shaft you requested. There’s an interesting withdrawal.”

“Thanks, Callaway.”

Hank took the paper and glanced at it. Callaway had highlighted a withdrawal for six thousand dollars cash from Shaft’s bank account on Tuesday morning. Could that be to pay off the hitman? Punky Brown had never been paid, but Brown indicated the fee for his services was five thousand. More circumstantial evidence? Perhaps. But what was the extra thousand for?

“Anything else you need, Hank?”

Hank looked up at the young cop. “Not right now. I’m sure there’ll be something later.”

Callaway returned to his desk as the precinct doors swung open and Detective King swaggered in. The grin on his face revealed he had something to share. He waved a finger at Hank, strode to the break room, took his sweet time about making a coffee, and then approached Hank’s desk.

Hank sat back and watched patiently as King settled into a chair and stretched out, one sneakered foot resting on the corner of the desk. King hadn’t shaved again this morning. He always managed to have three day’s growth on his face, even after he shaved. It was a mystery even Hank couldn’t solve.

King sipped at his coffee. Hank waited some more.

“Harland Eastwood,” King said at last.

King had a way of dropping names as if making a big reveal, and then waiting for a response before explaining.

Hank took the bait. “Who’s Harland Eastwood?”

King took another sip and sat his cup on the desk. “One of the druggies robbed by Shaft and his friends.”

Hank sat forward and rested his arms on the desk. “Does Eastwood know who robbed them?”

“I haven’t talked to him yet,” King said. “I got the name from a CI. Had to get him out of bed.”

Hank sighed lightly, shuffled the papers on his desk, and remained patient.

King continued, “Seems like all these criminal types sleep until noon. Guess that’s what happens when you’re up half the night.”

“Does your informant know where to find Eastwood?”

King pulled a scrap of paper from his shirt pocket and waved it. “Got the address.” He handed it to Hank.

“Rough part of town,” Hank said, after looking at the paper. “You’d think if they were big-time drug dealers they could afford to live in a better place.”

“Apparently, Eastwood is a flunky. Not one of the big shots. Does deliveries, pickups, that sort of thing.”

Hank frowned. “That’s the best you could get? A flunky?”

“He might not be top brass, but if he knows anything, it’s gonna be easier to get something from him.”

Hank swept the reports into a pile, dropped them into his briefcase, and stood. “Let’s go see if we can find this Eastwood character.”

Chapter 35

Thursday, 10:24 a.m.

JAKE WAS STRETCHED out on the couch, a cushion under his head, his hands tucked behind it. The television was on and muted, but Jake wasn’t watching it. He stared at the ceiling, sorting through the facts, devising a workable plan of attack.

Though Rocky Shaft appeared to be the obvious suspect for Norton’s murder, Jake wasn’t so sure. However, the revelation by Shaft’s neighbors regarding a possible affair was foremost in his mind.

It seemed to Jake, other than the affair, Shaft was trying to hide something and money played a big part in it.

He swung his legs to the floor, stood, and went into the office. Annie was typing furiously at the keyboard, and when he entered, she stopped and looked over at him.

He approached the desk and perched on the corner. “I thought I might go see Rocky Shaft,” he said.

“That suits me fine. I got the cell phone number of one of Michael Norton’s neighbors from Hank, and I have an appointment to visit her at her work at noon, during her lunch break.”

“Great. Then I’ll see you back here this afternoon. I’ll call you if I come up with anything interesting.” Jake gave her a quick peck on the lips and left the office.

He unplugged his cell phone from the charger, slipped it into a holder on his belt, and grabbed his car keys from a hook by the door on the way out.

The Firebird purred like a tiger under control when he turned the key. He looked at his watch; Shaft should be at work, and if not, Jake wanted to know why.

Richmond Distributing sat on a couple of acres surrounded by a chain link fence. A pair of warehouses occupied much of that space, the rest taken up by parking areas, tractor-trailers, and shipping containers.

From the information he’d gleaned online, Jake knew the company did local and national distribution for a number of organizations, as well as drop-shipping services for a variety of mail-order and online firms.

Driving onto the property was not much different from going to the mall. There was no gate, no security, and the public was always welcome to visit the showroom displaying a range of items for retail purchase.

Jake parked in one of the guest spots, grabbed an official looking baseball cap from the back seat, and walked around behind the largest building to the shipping doors at the rear.

A row of vehicles was parked along the back fence and Jake spied a red Ford pickup. That would be Shaft’s vehicle. He wandered over and checked the license plate to be sure. It was Shaft’s. He would be in the building somewhere.

A trailer was backed up to the loading dock and the hum of a lift truck could be heard unloading skids of merchandise to be redistributed. A man door beside the dock was propped open by a concrete block, and from where Jake stood, workers could be seen engrossed in their tasks.

He stepped inside and looked around. No one paid him any attention; perhaps they assumed he was a truck or local delivery van driver.

Jake didn’t know where he would find Shaft. He only knew he worked in the shipping department. Half of the enormous room was filled with rows and rows of shelving, skids piled three layers high, and mounds of shipping material. Shaft could be anywhere.

The entire right wall of the building was one long counter, weigh scales and postage machines at intervals, where pickers filled orders for shipping to individuals and small companies. Shaft wasn’t among those preoccupied workers.