The Hook Read online

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Recent Titles by Tim O’Mara

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  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

  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

  Recent titles by Tim O’Mara

  The Raymond Donne mysteries

  SACRIFICE FLY

  CROOKED NUMBERS

  DEAD RED

  NASTY CUTTER*

  THE HOOK*

  *available from Severn House

  THE HOOK

  Tim O’Mara

  This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  This first world edition published 2019

  in Great Britain and 2020 in the USA by

  SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of

  Eardley House, 4 Uxbridge Street, London W8 7SY.

  Trade paperback edition first published

  in Great Britain and the USA 2020 by

  SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD.

  eBook edition first published in 2019 by Severn House Digital

  an imprint of Severn House Publishers Limited

  Copyright © 2019 by Tim O’Mara.

  The right of Tim O’Mara to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

  A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

  ISBN-13: 978-0-7278-8918-8 (cased)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-78029-669-2 (trade paper)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-4483-0367-0 (e-book)

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents

  are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Except where actual historical events and characters are being described

  for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are

  fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead,

  business establishments, events or locales is purely coincidental.

  This ebook produced by

  Palimpsest Book Production Limited, Falkirk,

  Stirlingshire, Scotland.

  To my non-law enforcement siblings:

  Jack, Ann, and Erin – and their families.

  Mom says you now have to read my books.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Sunday, August 4, 2019

  This page looked a lot different yesterday. To all those who were mentioned, please know that I love you and appreciate your support in my personal, teaching, and writing lives.

  Yesterday, a gunman in Dayton, Ohio, killed nine of his fellow Americans using what law enforcement has described as an ‘assault-style weapon’ along with a high-capacity magazine capable of holding one hundred rounds. As I write this, his motive is unknown. What is known is that the carnage would have been much worse were it not for the quick and brave response of Dayton police.

  Hours earlier yesterday, a gunman in El Paso, Texas, shot and killed twenty-two people – fourteen of whom were his fellow Americans – with an AK-47 assault-style rifle. Law enforcement agents, both local and federal, are calling this an act of ‘domestic terrorism’ based on a manifesto the shooter posted online regarding immigrants and praising the White Supremacist from Christchurch, New Zealand, who killed fifty-one worshippers at mosques earlier this year. Again, more carnage was avoided due to the courage and professionalism of El Paso’s police.

  It is my profound hope that my country’s politicians – my fellow Americans – can agree upon more sensible gun laws to protect our citizens. Today I walked into a sporting goods store and was told I could walk out with a rifle – possibly assault-style – after passing a five-minute ‘background check.’ No one needs a gun that quickly.

  It is also my hope that my fellows citizens of Earth can begin to see past the hateful rhetoric of a small few – some in great positions of power – and realize that we’re all in this together no matter what our color, country of origin, gender identity, or religion.

  So today, the day after one of the worst days of gun violence in American history, I choose to acknowledge the brave men and women of law enforcement, those who preach love instead of hate, and those who are unafraid to call out hateful and violent rhetoric, especially when it may be uncomfortable to do so.

  ONE

  Detective James Royce of Brooklyn North, NYPD, looked down at Maurice Joseph’s lifeless body lying in two inches of freshly fallen snow with an arrow sticking out of his back. ‘You, Mr Donne,’ he said, still looking at the dead man in front of us, ‘are turning into Williamsburg’s own Jessica Fuckin’ Fletcher.’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ I asked.

  He turned his glance to me. ‘Come on. Murder, She Wrote. Jessica Fletcher?’

  ‘I get the reference, Detective. My mom used to watch it every Sunday night. The one hour a week she wouldn’t answer the phone. I don’t know what it has to do—’

  ‘Being with you is like visiting Cabot Cove, Maine.’ He shook his head. ‘Dead bodies just seem to pop up everywhere you go.’

  I rubbed my weary eyes. ‘Royce, I know it seems that—’

  ‘No, no. Really, Mr Donne.’ He held up his right hand like a traffic cop. ‘I’ve known you … what, now … five, six years?’

  ‘Give or take, yeah.’

  ‘And in that time, you’ve been around more dead bodies than an intern at the city morgue.’ He scratched at his salt-and-pepper goatee. I noticed his closely cropped Afro was also getting white. Deep down, I knew I was the reason behind some of that gray hair. ‘I mean, no offense, but if my daughter attended school here, I’d transfer her the hell out. I’d be afraid something would happen to her.’

  I knew he was trying to be funny – in that gallows humor sort of way that so many cops think they have – but I was not in the mood. A guy I worked with had just been murdered on the roof of my school as he was checking out his hydroponic vegetable garden and his pigeons. The fact he’d been killed by an arrow – as in bow-and-arrow – added to the surreal feeling coursing through my body. I did a slow eyes-wide-open three-sixty and took a few deep breaths.

 
‘What are you doing?’ asked Royce, tapping his notebook against his thigh.

  ‘I’m trying to calm myself down. You think I get used to seeing dead bodies?’

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘I’d worry about that.’ He scratched his chin again. ‘I also know you’re not just calming yourself down. Most people do that with their eyes closed. You’re doing something completely different.’

  ‘Really? What else am I doing, Detective?’

  He grinned and touched my shoulder with his index finger a few times. ‘You’re scoping out the crime scene, Mister Donne.’ The grin turned into a few short chuckles. ‘I truly don’t think you can help yourself.’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’ I took a step back from him. ‘And lose the laughter, OK?’

  ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘But I believe I just watched you case the crime scene. At least this part of it.’

  I shook my head. ‘Listen, you got my statement, can’t I just—’

  ‘Whatta ya know, Donne? What did that little’ – he pointed his index finger toward the sky and spun it around – ‘observational pirouette you just did tell you?’

  He wasn’t going to give up. Partly because he liked annoying me, partly because we both knew he was right. I could not help myself.

  I took in some air. ‘First,’ I said, ‘this was not a random incident. Nobody waits around for someone to show up on the roof of a school building for target practice.’

  ‘Agreed,’ Royce said.

  ‘Out of the four buildings around the school,’ I began, ‘there’re three rooftops the shooter could have used. Kind of risky using a rooftop; lots of exposure.’ Three of the four buildings around us were five-storys high, a good ten feet higher than my school. I looked down at the arrow sticking out of MoJo’s back. ‘I’m not sure about the windows because it would be hard for the killer to be able to get into an apartment. That’s also risky, possibly noisy and too traceable. Based on the angle of the entry of the arrow, I think we can assume this was not an accident.’

  ‘OK,’ Royce said. ‘What else?’

  ‘Whoever did this knew MoJo would be up here at this time. Again, you don’t wait around on a roof in early April snow flurries hoping your intended target shows up before someone notices you on the roof of a housing project with a bow and arrow.’ I thought of the other option. ‘Same goes for a window. You’re not going to use your own place, so you only have a small … window of time to get the job done. The shooter knew MoJo’d be up here at this time. Means he scoped out the area for a while. Once the deed is done, you’d wanna get gone as soon as possible.’

  ‘Good.’ Royce nodded. ‘That reminds me,’ he said. ‘I know you told the responding officers, but tell me how you happened to be up on the school roof at four-thirty on a Thursday afternoon. Isn’t there a beer with your name on it somewhere?’

  ‘I was finishing up some paperwork,’ I said. ‘I got a text from MoJo to meet—’

  ‘A text from who?’

  ‘MoJo.’ I gestured with my head down at Maurice. ‘He liked to be called MoJo. It was a mix of his first and last names.’

  Royce nodded. ‘So he texted you … why?’

  ‘I don’t know. He asked if I was still in the building. When I said I was, he asked me to meet him on the roof. I told him I’d be up in fifteen, twenty minutes, and …’

  Royce and I looked around the roof: crime scene techs, a couple of uniforms, and my principal, Ron Thomas, pacing and looking as if he were about to have a stroke. Ron was perfectly happy having me speak with the cops. He didn’t like talking to them, but I used to be one of them. A perfect match.

  ‘And he was up here …’

  ‘Checking on his garden,’ I said. ‘He was concerned about the snow and his hydroponics system. He was going to cover the plants for the weekend. There might be more snow coming tonight.’

  ‘What about the pigeons?’

  ‘They’re pigeons. I’m not sure if he was going to cover them, but I think they’ll survive a nuclear blast. With the cockroaches.’

  ‘I mean, why have them up here at all?’

  ‘It was one of his hobbies,’ I said. ‘He made a deal with Mr Thomas and the head custodian. He’d teach the kids about organic gardening, if he could keep a coop of pigeons on the roof.’

  ‘So, Mr Maurice worked here?’

  ‘Mr Joseph,’ I corrected. ‘He didn’t actually work here. He was doing community service three days a week. Monday, Wednesday and Friday.’

  Royce’s face went quizzical. ‘Community service? For what?’

  ‘MoJo was a repeat drug offender. An addict. This’ – I waved my hand at the garden and pigeon coop – ‘was part of his outpatient program. You ever hear of Newer Leaves, Detective?’

  ‘They let him work around kids?’

  ‘Yeah,’ I said, not hiding my disgust with his attitude. ‘MoJo was an addict, Detective. Not a Catholic priest. He was a non-violent offender. Like most addicts. He was no more of a danger to the kids than I am.’

  I could tell he wanted to bring up the Jessica Fletcher thing again, but he thought better of it.

  ‘Not all addicts are non-violent, Mr Donne,’ Royce felt the need to add. ‘Just ask all the victims of purse-snatching and smash-and-grabs.’

  ‘Well, MoJo was,’ I said. ‘He and his wife both had decent jobs. He didn’t have to scrounge for drug money.’

  ‘Sounds like he—’ Royce began, but I interrupted.

  ‘He lost his job because of the addiction. He and his wife Lisa are expecting. She’s planning on working as long as she can.’

  ‘What kinda work did he do?’

  ‘IT, mostly,’ I said. ‘He specialized in building firewalls, protecting companies from getting their systems hacked, stuff like that. He was making a small income from that.’ I paused. ‘You remember my friend, Edgar Martinez? From The LineUp.’

  Royce smiled. ‘You don’t forget a guy like Edgar.’

  ‘True. Edgar hooked him up with me. They’ve known – knew – each other for a few years; they met online, then in-person, then started a small company doing security. Virtual and actual.’

  That’s when it hit me I’d have to break the news to Edgar. Edgar didn’t take the news of an unexpected Yankee trade well; God knew how he’d handle this. He didn’t have many friends outside of me, my girlfriend Allison, and MoJo. We were working on that. My phone buzzed. Allison.

  ‘Excuse me, Detective,’ I said to Royce.

  ‘We’re not done, Donne,’ he said and smiled at the way that sounded.

  ‘I should take this.’ I took a few steps away. ‘Hey, Allie.’

  ‘What’s wrong, Raymond?’ she asked. That was one of the problems with living with a reporter: you couldn’t put much past one. Especially one as good as Allison.

  I lowered my voice. ‘You remember Maurice Joseph?’

  Three-second pause, then, ‘MoJo? Sure. What about him?’

  I cleared my voice and swallowed. ‘He’s dead. Someone shot him.’

  Silence from her end for about five seconds before, ‘Oh my God, Ray. What happened?’

  I gave her the thirty-second version – and had to repeat the part about the arrow – and she told me she was on her way. I almost asked if she were coming as my caring girlfriend or a curious journalist. I didn’t ask that question because I had learned not to ask that question. And I’d learned it the hard way. Royce wasn’t so far off about dead bodies and me, and this would not be the first time that Allison’s job and my connections to recently deceased people collided.

  Knowing there was nothing else to say, I said, ‘I’ll see you when you get here.’

  She broke off our conversation without saying goodbye. Like they do on TV shows all the time.

  I turned back to Royce. He was writing something in his notebook, and without looking at me, said, ‘That your girlfriend?’ Before I could ask how he knew who I was talking to, he added, ‘I’m a detective, Mr Donne. With real training.
I do hope you told her to stay away from the active crime scene.’

  I waited for him to laugh. When he didn’t, I said, ‘You can tell her when she gets here, Detective. That’s a conversation I don’t have with her. Anymore.’

  He pointed the eraser of his pencil at me. ‘At least you’re learning. Why is she interested anyway? I heard she got shit-canned with all the other less-senior journalists at her paper. Did she land another gig?’

  ‘She did.’ Allison had been let go in the latest wave of cutbacks. More victims of the Internet. ‘She and some friends started a website, kind of a citywide all-five-boroughs thing. She mostly covers the crime beat.’

  ‘And this pays her rent?’

  I could have told him I was paying her rent, but decided not to. ‘They’ve got a few advertisers and subscribers,’ I said. ‘And a rich friend from college who’s giving them a year to show viability.’

  ‘Viability?’

  ‘That’s how the investment class refers to making a profit. It’s kinda like Facebook meets America’s Most Wanted meets the off-beat news cycle. They make money on subscribers, some ads – business and personal.’

  ‘Now you’re dating yourself, Mr Donne. People don’t read personal ads anymore. They swipe left or right. Either way,’ he added, ‘paper, electronic, smoke signals, no reporters will be allowed up here to the crime scene. The school is city property. If a photo of the victim with an arrow in his back shows up online or in print, I’ll know whose shoes to bust.’

  ‘You think I’d take advantage of my access to the crime scene just to make my girlfriend’s job easier?’

  Detective Royce smirked. ‘No,’ he said. ‘That’d never happen. Not up here in Cabot Cove.’