Chapter 18
Blakely
Grabbing Jack’s arm in the lobby of The Times Building, we find a quiet corner by the elevators. He calls Lance’s home number, talks for a few minutes, and after hanging up, he’s all smiles.
“I told her I was an old college buddy looking to connect over the holidays. His mother gave me his address. He lives just south of Trenton.”
“The home of Jackson Pharmaceuticals?”
“Exactly.”
“Okay, then, let’s go.” Finally, we have some leads.
We catch a cab, get my car out of the garage, and soon we’re headed south toward Trenton. Even though I try to stay awake, my eyes get heavy and when I wake, we’re almost there.
Jack makes a few turns in the small suburb and stops in front of a sixties asbestos-shingled cape.
“Is this it?” The block is filled with similar small houses, shiny driveways, and manicured lawns.
“Yeah. He’s not home.” With no car in the driveway, we walk to the back porch and peer in the sliding-glass door. Both front and back doors locked, we try a few windows.
“Here’s one.” I point to where someone left a back window opened a crack.
Jack pulls off the screen and worms his way into the home. A few seconds later, we both stand in what must be Lance’s bedroom and I turn three-hundred-sixty-degrees. The bed is unmade and the comforter’s stuffing has seen better days. Laundry, both clean and dirty, litters the entire wood floor.
“What are we looking for?” I turn to Jack, already searching the closet.
“Anything that will get the Feds off my case.”
I rifle through a few drawers then shout, “My gun. Those liars. The FBI didn’t have it after all.”
“Don’t touch it!” He grabs my hand as I’m about to pick it up.
“But we need to show it to the FBI.”
He moans. “They’ll say I planted evidence. Blake, something’s wrong. No murderer, no matter how stupid, would hide a murder weapon in their top dresser drawer.”
Suddenly, the front door slams and Jack says, “Shit. Call 911.”
“But.”
“Do it.” He steps in front of me but it’s too late to do anything other than raise our hands in the air.
“What’reyoudoing here?” I stare at the gun and raise my gaze to the face of the man holding it, Mike Kane.
He laughs and I swear there’s a little insanity around the eyes. “What do you think? I’m getting a good story.”
Jack edges forward but Kane points the gun at my belly. “Try anything and she gets it through the bullseye.”
He waves his gun at the dresser. “You, Jack. Pick the gun up by the barrel and then sit over there. Put it down by your feet. Real slow though, you don’t want me thinking you’re not cooperating.”
I watch, completely confused. “We told you we’d give you our story.”
“Blake, Blake, Blake. You just don’t understand. That’s not good enough. Try this on for size.” He puts his hands out wide, as if reading an old ticker tape on Times Square. “Blogger walks in on double-homicide, finds key to greatest hoax in history.”
“You set us up?” Jack’s eyes narrow.
“You set yourselves up by lying to me. I know Philip isn’t dead and that’s the problem. I need him to be. To write the story, I have to open the flash drive. You, Jack, are going to help. This is what will happen. Philip will walk in, find intruders, and shoot you both. You shoot him, I shoot you. It’s perfect.”
