Find a Penny, Pick It Up

By Larry J. Brotherton

Jack Sinclair is no different from any other fifty something, widowed insurance salesman. Except that for a sideline, he kills people . . . for money. When a publicity driven attorney begins a crusade to free the self-confessed killer of Jack's wife, Jack takes it upon himself to make things right by killing the attorney. He gets away with it, or so he thinks, until a self-styled vengeance broker named Eddie blackmails Jack into doing more killing to keep his secret. After several years of doing Eddie's bidding, Jack agrees to do one last job, but winds up falling in love with the intended victim. When Jack makes the decision to protect Allison Wesson, instead of killing her, he becomes a target of hired assassins. The story has several plot twists, and Eddie, the vigilante, becomes an ingratiating character as he aides Jack in his efforts to save Allison's life.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Jul 18, 2001
• ISBN: 9780759631960

Larry J. Brotherton

Larry Brotherton is the author of Doreen and Find a Penny, Pick It Up, both available on 1stBooks.com, and he has co-authored two stage plays entitled, Almost Human and Lessons. Mr. Brotherton and his wife reside in Pasadena, Texas.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

This would be the last one. Although he said that before, this time he meant it. He had not wanted to take this job, but the money was good. After three days of a hurried analysis it figured to be an easy one.

Jack Sinclair shifted his fifty-year old body on the padded, but uncomfortable stool inside his panel van. He leaned forward for a better view out of the van’s dual use rear window. The lady should be pulling into the parking lot of the pawn shop located across the street at any moment.

Jack checked his watch. Eight-fifteen. For the previous three mornings Jack observed the lady arriving at the pawn shop at eight-twenty, sharp.

He was beginning to get hot. Even at that time of the morning in the middle of April, it could get warm in a hurry inside an air tight enclosure in San Antonio, Texas.

Sinclair felt a bead of sweat roll down his back as the lady eased her car into her parking space. After locking the door, she walked toward the pawn shop entrance carrying the same black brief case she always brought to work.

She set her brief case down and began unlocking the two large padlocks that secured the pull down, anti-theft awning that protected the display windows and front door. While the awning rolled up, the lady unlocked the door, picked up her brief case and walked inside.

Sinclair had observed her go through that identical routine for the last three mornings. So far, he had watched her from a rental car, through a pair of binoculars. A different car every morning, but today, Sinclair was in his van, watching her by way of his rifle scope.

Today she wore a dress, on the previous mornings she had worn jeans or pants. Her hair was pulled back, revealing more of her face than before. It was an attractive face. He had not noticed her physical appearance before. This was just a job. He was only interested in her morning habits.

She walked behind the counter and entered her code in the alarm system key pad. Afterward, she walked back to the front door and looked out across the parking lot while she re-locked the double bolt locks, as was her routine.

Tomorrow, the instant she turned the key on the second lock, Sinclair would fire two bullets into her head from his Colt Ar 15 sniper’s rifle. The weapon was fitted with a silencer. The only thing to be heard would be the shattering of the door’s glass. The lady would never hear a sound. She would be dead by the time she hit the floor.

The door would be locked, the alarm would be turned off, and Sinclair would be well on his way back to Pensacola by the time her body was discovered.

Forty-five minutes later, Jack Sinclair was back in his third hotel room in four days. He relaxed on the bed, looking at the ceiling, running a final check list through his mind.

The third rental car was returned yesterday. He used a false driver license and American Express card for identification, but he paid in cash. He always used cash when he was on a job. Sinclair could not chance a paper trail.

He had been careful not to draw unnecessary attention to himself the last several days. He ate all his meals in his room, no drinks at the hotel bar, no conversations with anyone beyond the minimum.

The rental cars were a risk, but vital to the job. Sinclair could not take the chance of someone seeing his van in the same parking space across from the pawn shop for five consecutive days.

Eddie had been against the rental cars, and more times than not, Eddie got his way. After all, Eddie set the job up and arranged the fake credentials. Eddie was sure that the cars were a mistake, and Eddie had yet to be wrong. This time Sinclair

went against Eddie’s wishes. Without Eddie, however, there would have been no jobs.

* * *

CHAPTER TWO

Lying on his hotel bed, Jack Sinclair’s mind drifted back to the events that led up to his initial meeting with Eddie, six years earlier. Although a short time had passed, it seemed a life time to Jack. The years prior to his association with Eddie brought back a different life to Jack’s mind, and another Jack Sinclair.

It had been a long day six years ago. Nothing had gone right. Jack lost out in signing up a large auto parts warehouse distributing company to a health insurance plan. Another insurance agent beat Jack’s bid by sixty-three dollars a month. Jack worked on the group policy proposal for six weeks. He took painstaking detail in researching all forty employees, and their dependents. He compiled an in-depth analysis on each family’s insurance needs.

For a lousy sixty-three dollars a month, he lost the sale. The owner of the company did not have the brass to tell Jack to his face. He had his secretary phone and give Jack’s secretary the news. Jack was so distraught that he took the rest of the day off, though it was only eleven in the morning. On his drive back to his house on Santa Rosa Island, located south of Pensacola, Jack entertained the notion of driving his car off the causeway. He was as angry as he was depressed.

Stephanie Sinclair, Jack’s wife, had gone shopping with their daughter, so he was alone for the afternoon. He changed clothes and sat on the couch. Even in his irate state, he managed to drift off to sleep.

The phone awoke Jack around two that afternoon. It was Christy, his twenty-three-year-old daughter. Stephanie had not shown for their shopping date, and although Christy was miffed, she was becoming concerned. Not keeping a shopping date was out of character for Stephanie Sinclair.

Jack and Stephanie had been high school sweethearts, and were married for twenty-four years. If Jack knew anything about his Stephanie, she was always responsible and conscientious of others. He assured Christy that there must be a plausible explanation of her mother’s absence, and he would have her call as soon as he heard from her.

Jack phoned his office to see if Stephanie might have tried to reach him there, but she had not. He made a few more calls and did some house cleaning to work off the apprehensive feelings that grew larger the longer that Stephanie failed to show.

Two nights later in Jacksonville, Florida, Stephanie’s car was involved in a one car accident. The driver was a twenty-six-year-old parolee, from the State Penitentiary. Stephanie’s purse and some of her personal items were found in the car, but Stephanie was still missing.

Harold Bennett, the suspect, was not able to be questioned by the police until the following day. Although still groggy from a head injury he suffered in the accident, Bennett was coherent enough to tell the police what had happened to Stephanie Sinclair.

Bennett abducted Stephanie from the mall parking lot the afternoon she failed to show for the shopping date with her daughter. He knocked her unconscious, laid her in the back seat, and took Interstate 10 eastward, stopping twice, at two different motels. At each stop, he beat and raped her. It was during the second day, when Stephanie put up her best resistance, that Bennett killed her. He wrapped her in a motel bedspread, and dumped her body in a wooded area behind a road side rest stop, while on his way to Jacksonville.

The police took Bennett and back-tracked Interstate 10. At the second rest stop they searched, her body was found. Later that same evening, Jack Sinclair made the painful trip to Jacksonville where he identified Stephanie’s body. Harold Bennett was charged with the capital murder of Stephanie Sinclair.

After the funeral, Jack attempted to put his life back together, but found it difficult. The one thing that kept him focused was Bennett’s upcoming trail and imminent conviction for Stephanie’s murder. The prosecutor handling the case assured Jack that the evidence against Bennett was cut and dried. The death sentence was a given.

The fact that Bennett was driving Stephanie’s car and had not only confessed to the murder, but had shown the police where he had dumped the body, left no doubt to Bennett’s guilt. A prominent criminal attorney from Tampa, by the name of Andrew Hurst, had a different perspective.

After a jailhouse conference with Andrew Hurst, Bennett recanted his confession. Two days later, following a brief pre-trial motions hearing, Hurst held an impromptu news conference on the court house steps. Hurst launched a media campaign about the blatant abuse of Harold Bennett’s civil rights, claiming that Bennett had not recovered from his head injury when he confessed to the murder, and should have been consulted by an attorney before he was questioned by the police.

There is an overwhelming abundance of evidence that Mr. Bennett was not properly advised of his civil right to consult with legal counsel before his confession, Hurst said. A coerced confession! he added in dramatic fashion before he began a deliberate walk down the steps. He stopped, threw his arms in the air and continued his oration.

Backed by the Constitution, I will do everything possible to see Mr. Bennett exonerated! Hurst bellowed.

Hurst was an imposing figure, although a mere five-feet six inches tall. At sixty years of age, he possessed a full head of white hair, with a precise part on the left side, never a strand out of place. His eyebrows white, like his hair, and his pencil thin mustache.

His small ears seemed out of proportion to his large nose and wide mouth, accented by a set of perfect teeth. When he spoke, he ended each sentence with a broad smile.

Mr. Hurst! a TV reporter shouted. Your client showed the police where the victim’s body was dumped. How can he be innocent?

It is our contention that Mr. Bennett was taken to the body…by the police, he did not lead the police to the body, Andrew Hurst replied. When the accused in America stop having basic civil rights, then this country stops being the America that I want to live in. He looked into the camera, and smiled.

Jack was at the court house that morning for the motions hearing and was standing behind the throng of news people on the steps. He became incensed while listening to Hurst distort the truth. A man wearing a fifteen hundred-dollar suit and sporting a President’s Rolex watch was championing the cause of someone whom he would not have given the time of day if it were not for the amount of publicity that the case might generate.

Harold Bennett had taken away the most precious person in Jack’s life, but at that precise moment, all the hatred and vengeance that had been building up in him against Bennett was now focused on Andrew Hurst. He wanted to scream something at Hurst, but the anger quelled his voice. Instead of yelling, Jack clenched his fists, fighting back tears of rage.

Hurst continued talking as he walked toward the parking lot. The myriad of news persons scurried after him. Jack followed the crowd, he had no choice. His car was parked there also, two spaces from Hurst’s automobile.

The barrage of questions continued, even as Hurst drove away in his immaculate, white Mercedes. Jack’s eyes were fixed on Hurst’s personalized license plates which read, ACQUITTED.

Mr. Sinclair, what is your reaction to the possibility that your wife’s alleged killer’s confession may be thrown out? a reporter asked, sticking a microphone in his face.

Jack said nothing as he continued to stare at the rear of the white Mercedes.

Do you have a comment, Mr. Sinclair? she asked. Jack ignored her and pushed his way past the other reporters as he walked toward his car. By the time he was opening his door, the news crews began walking back in the direction of the court house.

Jack sat in his car for several minutes. He did not feel like going to work, and he did not want to go home. Jack felt the need to talk to someone, but the only someone in his life was gone.

The following day, after several hours of getting the run-around, Jack managed to contact someone in the DA’s office. An assistant DA by the name of Harper was assigned to the case.

What can I help you with, Mr. Sinclair? she asked. To Jack, her voice seemed young for someone in that much authority.

I’m curious about what’s going to happen to the case of my wife’s murderer, Jack said. Is your office still going to be able to convict Bennett? He was trying to keep the anger from showing in his voice.

Oh, certainly, Mr. Sinclair, she answered. Securing a conviction is not going to be as simple, now that Mr. Hurst has entered the fray, but we feel that we have enough physical evidence to convict. But… she hesitated.

Go ahead, Jack interrupted. What are you afraid to tell me?

I’m afraid that because of Bennett’s confession at the outset, we failed to obtain, or protect as much of the physical evidence from your wife’s body as we might normally have…if we were still looking for her killer.

You mean my wife’s body may have to be exhumed? he said with disgust.

It’s a distinct possibility, she said. There was an uncomfortable silence before Ms. Harper added, Mr. Sinclair…we goofed. We assumed that with Bennett’s confession, we would never go to trial. We were certain that he would plead out. Andrew Hurst, however, has now made that subject moot.

Do you think Hurst will be able to get Bennett off? Jack asked.

Again, she hesitated, which did nothing to bolster Jack’s confidence. Nothing is a sure thing in a court room, Mr. Sinclair, she said. If we can’t get the confession admitted into evidence, I still believe everything else we have will be enough to convict.

There was not enough assurance in her voice to convince Jack.

There is also the possibility that Hurst is merely trying to obtain a more favorable plea bargain, she added.

There aren’t any headlines or future clients in plea bargains, Ms. Harper, Jack said before hanging up the phone.

Two weeks later, Jack was on his way home from the office at two o’clock in the morning. He had been engrossed in his work, doing anything to keep from slipping into a deep depression. He was so exhausted that he fell asleep at his desk. Before leaving the office, Jack left a note for his secretary, telling her that he was going to sleep in that morning, and he would call her later that morning.

Approaching the on ramp to the freeway, a fast traveling car cut in front of Jack as the two cars reached the section that merged into one lane. Jack applied his brakes and shot a glance at his rear view mirror to see if anyone was behind him. Because of the early hour, the traffic was non existent. In fact, there was not another car’s headlights in sight.

Jack resumed his speed and shook his head to keep awake and something caught his eye that roused him. The license plate of the car that cut in front of him screamed ACQUITTED.

Jack’s heart began to race. Andrew Hurst had been on his mind since that day in front of the court house. He no longer dwelled on the punishment of Harold Bennett. All of his

bitterness was shifted to Andrew Hurst, and now, he was just a few car lengths ahead of him.

Jack accelerated and reached across the front seat to his brief case. Without taking his eyes off Hurst’s car, he unlatched the locks and lifted the lid. His hand came out with his Colt Python,.357 magnum revolver.

Jack never kept a gun in his car until after Stephanie’s death. On occasions he took the gun with him on long trips, but never will the diligence that he did now. Times were different. Jack Sinclair was different, also.

His adrenaline surged as he held the gun, and at that moment, he formed his plan. Jack looked into the rear view mirror and saw no other headlights in sight, then accelerated, switching to the left-hand lane.

Within thirty seconds he caught up with the white Mercedes and Jack’s front bumper was even with the rear of Hurst’s automobile. He rolled down the passenger’s window and glanced in his rear view mirror again. The freeway remained deserted behind him.

He was now along side the Mercedes and could see Andrew Hurst behind the wheel. Jack raised his gun and took aim, but he was unable to bring himself to the point of pulling the trigger. He arm was beginning to sag from the weight of the gun when Hurst turned his head, and the two men’s eyes met. When Jack saw Hurst’s face, he thought his Stephanie and how her expression must have looked when she knew she was going to die. Hurst smiled.

Jack straightened his arm and began pulling the trigger as fast as he could. He did not notice the bucking of the gun in his hand, nor did he realize how many shots he fired into Hurst’s car.

The Mercedes veered away from Jack’s car and slammed into the concrete barrier. Jack was still pulling the trigger on an empty gun when he snapped to what was happening.

He was one-hundred yards ahead of Hurst’s car by now and he was regaining some composure. Jack eased up on the accelerator, checking for cars in both directions. The only thing in sight was the disappearing headlights of Andrew Hurst’s disabled Mercedes.

Jack took a several deep breaths in an effort to relax, but it did not help. His body was shaking and he was having difficulty keeping his car in its lane. He brought his right hand up to help steady the steering wheel, not realizing until that moment that he was still holding the gun in his hand.

Get rid of the gun! he shouted. I’ve got to get rid of the gun!

His mind raced with a torrent of possibilities. Within seconds, the obvious solution dawned on him. He would throw the revolver in the Gulf. He was driving on a bridge, over a body of water that could hide the gun for eternity. Jack was on the last section of the causeway that stretched from Pensacola to Santa Rosa Island.

He thought of the many times he had fished under this bridge, in the same area of water. He knew that the depth under the bridge would make it impossible to recover the gun.

Without more consideration, Jack grabbed the gun by its barrel and eased his car as close to the edge of the bridge as he dared. After another quick glance in his rear view mirror for any approaching autos, he flung the gun out the passenger side window.

It was done. Jack checked the speedometer, making sure he would not draw needless attention to himself during the short drive to his house on the island.

Jack rolled the passenger’s window up, but as he neared the end of the bridge, the smell of the spent gun powder became obvious. He also realized that his ears were ringing from the gun blasts, something he had not noticed while he was pulling the trigger. Jack rolled the window down again, as well as the driver’s window to hasten the airing of the car.

Turning onto his street, Jack extinguished his headlights before reaching his house. After several seconds, he switched them back on, thinking it would be better to be seen coming

home at three o’clock in the morning by a neighbor, than seen attempting to sneak home.

Jack took the precaution of making as little noise as possible when he closed the car door, just in case no one had seen his car pull into the driveway, and took the added safeguard not to turn on any lights when he entered his house.

He felt his way through his dark front room, down the hall and into his bedroom, sat on his bed, removed his socks and shoes, and tried to relax.

He entertained the idea of getting stinking drunk, assuming it would be the only way he would be able to fall to sleep. Getting smashed could come later, if necessary.

Jack tried to assess his feelings about what he had done. It felt odd to him, but he had no feelings one way or the other. He felt neither pride, nor shame for his deed. He felt numb.

Jack rolled onto his side and stared at the pillow where Stephanie had slept