In The Crosshairs

By Robert Gonko

A cop charged with murder and sex trafficking is gunned down in broad daylight. It is the work of an individual known only as the Sniper; a killer who specializes in eliminating the most dangerous enemies of the Port Mason underworld—informers.

Private investigator Steve Bennett, fresh from his success in stopping the serial killer known as ‘The Servant’ is drawn into the hunt when it intersects with his most important case: the renewed search for his brother’s killer, a trail that is five years cold. The days ahead will test Steve as he has never been tested before, especially when the evidence points to the chief of police himself.

Steve and reporter Amanda Clark will face a gauntlet of intrigue, deception and betrayal beyond their wildest imagination as they find themselves “In The Crosshairs.”

• Language: English
• Publisher: Robert Gonko
• Release date: Mar 14, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370084401

Robert Gonko

Robert became a fan of thrillers as a teenager when he discovered Clive Cussler's Dirk Pitt series. These works, and others, inspired him to start writing his own books and a life-long dream was born. He first created his central characters Steve Bennett and Amanda Clark in college, though it would be many years before he hit on the right stories for them. In his early forties he conceived the Port Mason series, stories set in and featuring a fictional city 'somewhere in America' that he describes as inspired by St. Louis and Portland (Oregon) with a strong dose of Chicago-style politics and corruption to keep things interesting. His first Port Mason story, "The Inheritance", was originally released in 2013. An updated and re-written edition was released later that year. Book two in the series, "The Servant", was released in 2014 with book three, "In the Crosshairs" coming out in 2017. He has just released the fourth installment, "The Mayor", and is getting started on book five. Robert was born and raised in Illinois, where he lives with his wife, Angela, and their children, Josie and Jimmy.

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Robert Gonko

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2017 by Robert Gonko

All rights reserved.

Cover Design by Edward Howell

Cover Concept by Josephine Gonko

ISBN: 9781370084401

This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient.

Table of Contents

Title page

Copyright

Table of Contents

Also by Robert Gonko

Dedication

First Target

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Second Target

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-One

Chapter Forty-Two

Chapter Forty-Three

Chapter Forty-Four

Chapter Forty-Five

Chapter Forty-Six

Chapter Forty-Seven

Chapter Forty-Eight

Chapter Forty-Nine

Chapter Fifty

Chapter-Fifty-One

Chapter Fifty-Two

Chapter Fifty-Three

Chapter Fifty-Four

Chapter Fifty-Five

Chapter Fifty-Six

Chapter Fifty-Seven

Chapter Fifty-Eight

Chapter Fifty-Nine

Chapter Sixty

Chapter Sixty-One

Aftermath: Third Target

Chapter Sixty-Two

Chapter Sixty-Three

Chapter Sixty-Four

Chapter Sixty-Five

Chapter Sixty-Six

Chapter Sixty-Seven

Chapter Sixty-Eight

Chapter Sixty-Nine

Chapter Seventy

Chapter Seventy-One

Chapter Seventy-Two

Chapter Seventy-Three

Chapter Seventy-Four

Escape

Chapter Seventy-Five

Chapter Seventy-Six

Chapter Seventy-Seven

Chapter Seventy-Eight

Chapter Seventy-Nine

Chapter Eighty

Chapter Eighty-One

Chapter Eighty-Two

Acknowledgements

Connect

Also by Robert Gonko

The Inheritance

(E-Book novella)

The Servant

This one’s for Josie and Jimmy

FIRST TARGET

The shooter was in place, listening to the law enforcement frequency on a radio earpiece. On his lap was an electronic tablet that displayed a map of this part of the city. The GPS arrow was moving toward his position. His quarry would be here in moments. He took a deep breath and raised the rifle to firing position.

The county sheriff’s cruiser came into sight. Two deputies rode in front. A third person sat in the back, wearing an orange jail jumpsuit. The shooter spoke into a lip mike. Now, he said.

The light at the intersection turned yellow, then red. Traffic, including the sheriff’s cruiser, came to a sudden stop. The target was in the crosshairs. The shooter’s finger was on the trigger. Exhale and squeeze...

The target’s head exploded in a mist of blood, flesh, and bone. Mission accomplished.

ONE

The Dodge Challenger, gleaming silver with black racing stripes, pulled up in front of a run-down house on Glendive Street. It was a two-story dwelling on a postage-stamp lot with a detached garage in the back. The siding was dirty and a few roof shingles were missing. The other houses on the block looked to be better cared for. Roy’s not much on maintenance, is he? Steve Bennett asked his passenger.

His uncle, Charley, shook his head. He’s not much on anything that costs money, he said. This house has been in his family for three generations. I’ve never known him to walk away from a freebie.

Steve looked around, trying to imagine what the street would have been like fifty years before. The old factory district would have still been thriving then. This neighborhood would have been solid blue-collar—hardworking and prosperous. It was still okay, but now considered lower-middle class.

Uncle and nephew were former police officers turned private investigators. Charley had gone into business for himself after retirement to avoid boredom. When Steve had been forced off the department a few years later, he joined the firm as a kind of junior partner. Since then they’d built Bennett Investigations into a top-flight operation.

They wore business suits and ties on a daily basis and could have passed for bankers or lawyers. Furthermore, the health-conscious men didn’t smoke and imbibed alcohol sparingly. What set them apart was the constant movement of the eyes, something anyone with a law enforcement background would recognize. They were always alert and watching for the trouble they hoped wouldn’t come their way.

Steve was slightly taller and leaner with a thick head of almost black hair and matching goatee. His seemingly ordinary brown eyes could be cold and penetrating depending on the circumstances. Charley’s jaw was squarer and his thick hair was almost completely white. His nose was slightly crooked from having been broken during a particularly difficult arrest in his early police career.

It was rare for Steve and Charley to be on the same case but this was special, and personal. They were back on the hunt for the murderer of Steve’s brother, Tom. The trail had been cold for five years largely, in their view, because of the man who lived in the run-down home: Roy Shoemaker, the homicide detective originally assigned to the case.

Both Bennetts considered Shoemaker the most incompetent, and corrupt, detective on the Port Mason Police Department. His police status and other connections protected him from any serious inquiry into his work or lack thereof so Steve and Charley had had to leave him alone.

But Shoemaker had been forced to retire several weeks earlier and was thus no longer guarded by his badge. The Bennetts had held back after the investigation into Tom’s murder was reassigned and reopened, but the new investigation had also stalled. Because of Shoemaker. Steve and Charley had decided that enough was enough. They were here to settle things once and for all.

The private investigators stepped onto the front porch. Steve pressed the doorbell but didn’t hear a ring. He could see discoloration on the front door where a knocker had once been. He rapped his knuckles on the old wood.

It was answered by a woman he guessed to be in her late fifties; right around Shoemaker’s age. She was very plain, no trace of cosmetics, with medium-length brownish-gray hair. Hello, Charley, she said, cheerfully. It’s been a long time.

Sure has, Charley agreed.

She turned to Steve. And this fine-looking young man must be Steve, she said. You’re lucky I’m not twenty years younger.

Steve’s eyes went wide. Cindy, we need to have a word with Roy, Charley said.

He’s not here and, God willing, he’s never coming back, she said, shocking both men. Come on in and I’ll tell you all about it.

They followed her inside. The foyer was dark, which put him on his guard. Was Roy actually lurking about somewhere, waiting to catch them in a vulnerable position? This line of thinking was second nature to Steve; vigilance came as naturally as breathing.

Sorry it’s so dark, Cindy said, hitting an old-fashioned push-button light switch. A dim ceiling light came on. Cheap bastard’s always on me about not wasting electricity. I’m afraid it’s become a habit.

Steve looked around. The foyer had hardwood floors and there was a nice wooden banister leading upstairs but that was where the attractiveness of the interior ended. The walls were a dingy tan, the plaster ceiling was cracked, and he couldn’t help but noticing some strange bubbling in a nearby corner at shoulder height. It took him a moment to realize that someone had painted over wallpaper.

Yeah, the house is a pit, she said. He wouldn’t move and wouldn’t spend the money to fix the place up. Some days I wish it would just burn to the ground. Steve was no expert on interior décor but thought a fire might improve the place.

Where did Roy go? Charley asked.

I don’t know and I don’t care, Cindy said, picking up a large manila envelope from a table next to the door. I got home late last night, dinner at my sister’s, and went straight to bed. He wasn’t here but I didn’t think much of it. He comes and goes as he likes and the longer he’s gone the better I like it. When I went into the kitchen this morning I found this. Take a look.

She took a legal document from the envelope. It’s a quitclaim deed, Cindy explained. He signed the house over to me. He also left me this.

She gave them a handwritten note. "I’m not coming back. The house and our joint accounts are all yours, including my pension. Do what you want with them. I’ll be fine. As long as we’re legally married you’re entitled to my benefits so don’t file for divorce unless you find someone else. Goodbye. Roy."

His handwriting? Steve asked.

Charley nodded. I’d know those hieroglyphics anywhere, he replied.

Both men looked at Cindy, who looked like she’d won the lottery. Conversely, Steve felt like he’d just lost everything. He looked at his uncle, who appeared just as upset. This had been their best chance. Can you at least hazard a guess as to where he went? Steve asked.

Probably someplace warm, she said. He only took light clothes with him.

Doesn’t exactly narrow it down, Charley observed.

Nope, Steve agreed. Mrs. Shoemaker--

Cindy, she corrected.

Cindy, do you know anything about Roy’s investigation into my brother’s murder?

I’m sorry, but no, she said. Roy never talked about work and I knew better than to ask. I’m sorry.

Does he have a credit card we can track? Steve asked.

Cindy shook her head. He doesn’t believe in them. He doesn’t even like using a checkbook.

Cash and carry sure sounds like him, Charley commented.

So what’s he doing for money if he left everything for Cindy? Steve asked.

Do you really have to ask that question, kid? Charley replied.

Steve supposed not. It stood to reason that if Roy’d left what had to be a sizeable pension account for his wife, he had more than enough to compensate from another, likely illegal, source. Shoemaker had a reputation for that sort of thing but nothing was ever proven.

He’s either driving south or he flew, Charley continued. If he flew, it wouldn’t be commercial. Not with a big pile of dirty money. You know who that means, kid?

Steve nodded. He did indeed.

As they moved to leave the house, Steve’s cell phone rang. The caller ID showed it was Shelley Wheeler, an old friend of his who was a detective sergeant on the PMPD’s Major Crimes Unit. Hey, Shel, he said. What’s up?

I need to see you down at J.J.’s Café, she replied. Now.

I’m in the middle of something, he said. What’s wrong?

Steve, just come down here before Harry puts out an APB, she implored. Cory Bradford’s been murdered.

TWO

Amanda Clark stepped out of the elevator onto the fifth floor of Police Headquarters, also known as the command floor. She did her best to look confident and unruffled as she walked down the long hallway. Inside, she was more than a little nervous. Part of her felt like she was walking into the proverbial lions’ den.

The special assignments reporter for the Port Mason Register had spent much of the last year on a series about corrupt police officers, which had not exactly endeared her to the PMPD. Nonetheless, she only drew a couple of cross looks as she walked to the chief’s office. Most people wouldn’t recognize her; it wasn’t like she was a TV personality, thank God.

The chief’s secretary, though, knew exactly who she was. Good morning, Brenda, Amanda said as cheerfully as she could. How are you today?

Miss Clark, Brenda replied, flatly. Amanda had never seen the woman smile and wondered if her face would crack if she tried. The chief won’t be in until at least ten.

I have an appointment, Amanda said, taking the card out of her purse. One you made for me personally. I assume you recognize your own handwriting.

Brenda made no move to take the card. Chief Huston just called to say he’d forgotten to put a doctor’s appointment on my calendar, she said. I was about to call you.

Of course you were, Amanda deadpanned. I don’t suppose it would do any good to point out that this is the third time this has happened? He promised me this interview in January.

I suggest you take it up with the media relations officer, Brenda said. I have no control over these issues.

Amanda rolled her eyes and walked out of the office. She wasn’t going to waste her time sparring with the hostile secretary, nor was she going to bother with the media relations officer. That worthy was about as much fun to deal with as a brick wall except that the wall was more likely to have a personality.

She considered the mayor’s press officer, who was much friendlier, but hesitated. Dealing with the mayor’s office meant the possibility of having contact with Craig. That was a non-starter with her. Call the mayor personally? She was still on good terms with him but it was a card she didn’t like to play too often. Owing politicians favors never ended well.

An answer presented itself as she walked by the Assistant Chief’s outer office and saw that position’s current occupant talking to his secretary. Unlike many in the senior command structure, Bill Schroeder had always been friendly to her, even after her articles set off a firestorm.

He spotted her right away and smiled. That smile was a winner, she decided. If she weren’t already seeing someone, and if Schroeder wasn’t married, she’d find him attractive. Oh, who was she kidding! She did find him attractive. He was six feet tall with broad shoulders, light brown hair tinged with silver and light blue eyes. To Amanda, who had always been drawn to older men, Bill Schroeder made nice eye candy.

Good morning, Miss Clark, he said, extending his hand. What brings you by?

She told him about the cancelled interview, bringing a frown to that handsome face. Wow. Even that looked good on him. I’m sorry to hear about this, Schroeder said. He didn’t mention an appointment to me, either, but I hope you understand he’s had a lot on his plate lately. I can see how something might slip his mind.

This is the third time, though, she said, hoping she didn’t sound pouty.

I’ll see if I can get it straightened out, he replied. For what it’s worth, I really don’t think it’s intentional.

I hope not, she said. Would you care to spare me a few moments of your time?

He smiled. Sure. Come on into my office.

She followed him past the ‘ego wall’ filled with photos of Schroeder with various dignitaries. Printed orders of promotion hung on the same wall. Awards and citations hung on another wall. Behind the desk was a large police shield which, he explained, hung in the office of every senior commander.

What do you consider the most important issue facing the police department right now? she asked as they took their seats.

Our relationship with the community, he said, without hesitation. I think we have to be honest with ourselves and admit that many of our citizens see us as the enemy, especially among minority groups. We’ve been more fortunate than other cities in that--

He was interrupted by the phone. After listening for a few moments, he said, Outside J.J.’s? More talk from the other end. I’m on my way…no, I’ll notify the chief.

He hung up and rose to get his coat. What’s wrong? Amanda asked.

I’m not at liberty to discuss that, he said. I’d like to continue this discussion soon. See Candace about an appointment.

After stopping by the secretary’s desk, Amanda left police headquarters, crossing Center Street to the newspaper building. She fired off a quick text to one of her police sources. This source replied that there’d just been a shooting at J.J.’s but could offer no more details. A shooting. Had a cop been killed? That would certainly be worthy of the assistant chief’s attention.

THREE

Steve was a little numb as he drove to J.J.’s Café on the city’s north side. To say the situation with Cory Bradford was complicated was probably, no, certainly an understatement. They’d come through the police academy together, occasionally worked together as police officers and detectives and, Steve had thought, were friends.

But he could not count as friend any man who would be part of a teenage prostitution ring operating out of Kingman Heights. Not only had Bradford protected just such an operation but he’d tried to engineer a plot to both extort money from Steve and to kill him. Steve had just barely come out on top in the confrontation but not before Bradford had murdered two people, one of whom was Steve’s best informant in the Heights.

Still, this was not the worst of Bradford’s sins, at least in Steve’s view. The attempted extortion had revolved around the kidnapping of Charley and Steve’s mother, Ann. Attacking him was one thing; in his line of work it was both expected and, to a certain extent, accepted. Attacking his family was unforgivable. In spite of his complicated feelings toward Bradford, Steve found himself shedding no tears at the disgraced police detective’s death.

He had to park a block away from the café because the street was blocked off and police were everywhere. The response did not surprise the private detective. Any cop killing, even the killing of a dirty cop, would draw just such a response.

He and Charley presented their credentials at the police line and an officer went to find Shelley Wheeler. While they waited they took in what they could of the crime scene. He saw a county sheriff’s cruiser in the street right in front of the café. The back doors of the cruiser were open. On the driver’s side Steve saw the bullet hole in the safety glass. Steve! A familiar voice called. Over here!

The officers at the line let him and Charley through. Detective Sergeant Shelley Wheeler was another academy pal and one of Steve’s closest friends; she was now a part of the PMPD’s elite Major Crimes Unit, a fancy name for the homicide squad. Charley had been on the MCU at the end of his career, serving as its second-in-command before deciding to retire.

The reason for that decision stood with Wheeler, regarding the Bennetts with a mixture of suspicion and contempt as they approached. Captain Harry McGowan was the head of the MCU. A tall, beefy man with pasty skin and sparse hair, McGowan was not easy to get along with. He also had a propensity for assuming the worst when it came to the Bennetts, something that did not exactly endear him to the family.

Well, well, if it isn’t Suspects Number One and Two, McGowan said when they were within earshot. Are you going to make it easy and confess now or do I get to use more persuasive techniques? Please choose option two.

I’ll say this for you, Harry, you’re consistent, Steve quipped, not offering to shake hands with the captain. Let me guess: murder for hire?

You can afford it.

True, Steve agreed. My financial manager has standing instructions to let you poke through my records whenever you suspect me of anything. It seemed easier than making you try to get a warrant every time you try to lock me up. I suppose I’m due—you haven’t tried this in about a month.

And I’ve got that finance guy on speed dial, McGowan retorted. So what’s the deal, Bennett? Decide to get your revenge for what happened? I saw the report on Bradford’s arrest. The SWAT guys had to pull you off him.

Yeah, I have a kind of funny reaction to people who want to hurt my family, Steve said. For some strange reason it makes me mad.

Mad enough to hire a hit man?

Harry, you are unbelievable, Charley said. How about you go find a real suspect and leave us alone?

He is a real suspect, McGowan argued. He has means. He has motive. And I suspect we’ll find that he had opportunity.

Steve sighed. At times like this he almost wished his best friend hadn’t given him the ten million dollars. Money seemed to cause more problems that it solved. Let me go ahead and say it. I did not arrange to have Cory murdered. There haven’t been any unusual withdrawals from my accounts. Dig all you want, Harry. You won’t find anything.

Steve, we have to ask, Wheeler said. Technically, the captain’s right.

Treasure that moment, Harry, it doesn’t happen too often, Charley said.

Can the three of you knock it off? Wheeler asked. I’d like to get on with the actual investigation.

That’s what I’m doing, Sergeant, McGowan said. Questioning the prime suspects. By rights I ought to haul both of you down to the MCU and interrogate you properly.

I’d like to see you try, Charley said.

Oh, is that right? McGowan replied. Just for that I should--

Captain! a new voice shouted from across the street. You need to see this!

Steve saw a black man in civilian clothes with a PMPD badge on his belt waving from an abandoned storefront. McGowan growled Don’t you two go anywhere, and went to see what the man wanted.

Isn’t that the guy who’s supposed to be working Tom’s case? Charley asked.

David Farlow, Steve confirmed. Yeah, that’s the guy. What’s he doing here, Shel?

I need him on this, she said. As soon as we’re done, he’ll be back on Tom’s case. I promise.

He’d better be, Steve said.

Wheeler! Over here! McGowan barked. Bring those two with you!

They joined McGowan and Farlow at the storefront. Who is it? McGowan demanded.

Who is who? Steve asked.

The sniper that killed Bradford, the captain said.

Sniper? Steve asked. "You mean the sniper?"

Yeah, that one, McGowan said. Tell me who it is or so help me, you are going to Crossville for good.

Steve barely heard him. The sniper. Not again.

He remembered that first hit, nearly ten years before. Back then he’d been a patrolman, working out of the 2nd Precinct, which included the notorious Kingman Heights district. The ‘shots fired’ call came over the radio. He and his partner, Dave Hill, got there within two minutes to find a man lying on the front steps of an apartment building with his brains blown out.

Working in the Heights had given Steve all too much experience with violent death but this one stood out. For one thing, it was obviously not your typical gang-related drive-by shooting. One shot from a high-powered weapon had brought this man down. The other thing was that the victim had been sitting right next to his mother when it happened.

As a patrol officer, he was not part of the actual investigation but he was able to keep tabs on the case by way of Charley. The victim, a former gang member named Eric ‘Colt’ Walker, had turned police informant, supplying the drug unit with intelligence on how cocaine and heroin was being smuggled into the city through the old factory district. In Port Mason, particularly in the Heights, becoming an informant was tantamount to suicide.

The next decade saw seven more killings, including Bradford. Police knew the killings were linked thanks not only to ballistic evidence but also the calling card of the killer: the shell casing deliberately left where it could be found and matched to the fatal slug. In addition, rumors swirled through the underworld that this was the fate that awaited snitches.