The Law Partners (Michael Gresham Legal Thriller Series Book 3) Read Free
Author: John Ellsworth
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stopped outside of 2564 and sprung the door with his picks. He stepped inside.
Into her bedroom he crept and removed his street clothes. Then, from the shoulder bag, he withdrew the Chicago Police Department uniform and put it on. It was the uniform with the stripe-less sleeve of a patrolman, a job he had once held in high regard. Now he just saw it as his downfall.
He slipped the police utility belt around his waist and adjusted the pepper spray, handcuffs, magazines, and semi auto. He settled the hat low across his eyes. His uniform made him feel powerful. When all hell broke loose and the duty cops arrived and he mixed in with them, the security staff and the district attorneys and the defense attorneys would have no record of him arriving there before the others.
He folded and carefully placed his jeans and T-shirt and porkpie hat inside his bag.
Thirty minutes later, he heard her key in the door.
3
S tormont stationed himself behind the front door. Once she was inside and the door was closing behind her, he clutched her in a choke hold. It was simple to do as he simply overpowered her. Her legs fell out from beneath her as if she had been head shot.
He caught her as she lost consciousness and crumpled. He carried her gently to the sofa. He stretched her out on her back and straightened her dress. Neat and unmarked--exactly like he wanted her.
He returned to the door and retrieved her gold lamé purse from the carpet. As he knew it would be, her pistol was inside. He knew that his hands, inside latex gloves, would leave no prints on the gun so he withdrew it from the purse and placed the purse on the coffee table beside the unconscious woman.
It was but minutes until lobby security called on the intercom. He keyed the unit and replied in his best impression of a female voice that yes, security should send Darrell Harrow right up to her condo, she was expecting him. Lights were clicked off. He took a seat in the chair beside the unconscious woman.
In less than five minutes there was a rapping on the door. It sounded almost like scratching and maybe it was, he couldn't be sure.
Whatever, he called to the visitor to come on in, the door was unlocked.
The visitor stepped inside a room that was as dark as night. Suddenly a light flared on and he froze; the police officer had turned the switch on the table between his chair and the sofa. In one continuous move Stormont fixed Harrow in his gunsights and pulled the trigger. Those hundreds of hours at the police shooting range hadn't been wasted. The single round struck the startled man squarely between the eyes. They remained open while the rear of his head spattered against the wall in the pattern of a large red flower. He fell to the floor, twisting, coming to rest partially on his back, one leg crumpled beneath him, both arms at his sides. He stared at the ceiling with the unblinking concentration of the dead.
Plucking a small nugget of burnt wood from the fireplace, the police officer drew on the wall above the victim's head. He rubbed the charcoal on the unconscious woman's hands. Pulling a wooden cross from his pack, he placed it on the carpet just above the victim's head. He cast a look around the living room. It was coming together just as he’d planned.
He then placed the gun inside the prosecutor’s purse and placed that in her bedroom. Tucking his shoulder bag up under his arm, he pulled his cop hat low across his eyes and exited the condo.
The elevator lowered him to the basement of the condominium tower, down to the visitors' level, where the man stepped back into the shadows.
An hour later, he saw the black Mercedes arrive and take the only remaining visitor's slot. He watched as the lawyer exited the Mercedes and hurried for the elevators. Making him was easy: his license plate said SET U FREE.
Twenty minutes later, Stormont heard the sound of far-off sirens coming closer. When he heard the sirens shut down just outside the building’s entrance,
Into her bedroom he crept and removed his street clothes. Then, from the shoulder bag, he withdrew the Chicago Police Department uniform and put it on. It was the uniform with the stripe-less sleeve of a patrolman, a job he had once held in high regard. Now he just saw it as his downfall.
He slipped the police utility belt around his waist and adjusted the pepper spray, handcuffs, magazines, and semi auto. He settled the hat low across his eyes. His uniform made him feel powerful. When all hell broke loose and the duty cops arrived and he mixed in with them, the security staff and the district attorneys and the defense attorneys would have no record of him arriving there before the others.
He folded and carefully placed his jeans and T-shirt and porkpie hat inside his bag.
Thirty minutes later, he heard her key in the door.
3
S tormont stationed himself behind the front door. Once she was inside and the door was closing behind her, he clutched her in a choke hold. It was simple to do as he simply overpowered her. Her legs fell out from beneath her as if she had been head shot.
He caught her as she lost consciousness and crumpled. He carried her gently to the sofa. He stretched her out on her back and straightened her dress. Neat and unmarked--exactly like he wanted her.
He returned to the door and retrieved her gold lamé purse from the carpet. As he knew it would be, her pistol was inside. He knew that his hands, inside latex gloves, would leave no prints on the gun so he withdrew it from the purse and placed the purse on the coffee table beside the unconscious woman.
It was but minutes until lobby security called on the intercom. He keyed the unit and replied in his best impression of a female voice that yes, security should send Darrell Harrow right up to her condo, she was expecting him. Lights were clicked off. He took a seat in the chair beside the unconscious woman.
In less than five minutes there was a rapping on the door. It sounded almost like scratching and maybe it was, he couldn't be sure.
Whatever, he called to the visitor to come on in, the door was unlocked.
The visitor stepped inside a room that was as dark as night. Suddenly a light flared on and he froze; the police officer had turned the switch on the table between his chair and the sofa. In one continuous move Stormont fixed Harrow in his gunsights and pulled the trigger. Those hundreds of hours at the police shooting range hadn't been wasted. The single round struck the startled man squarely between the eyes. They remained open while the rear of his head spattered against the wall in the pattern of a large red flower. He fell to the floor, twisting, coming to rest partially on his back, one leg crumpled beneath him, both arms at his sides. He stared at the ceiling with the unblinking concentration of the dead.
Plucking a small nugget of burnt wood from the fireplace, the police officer drew on the wall above the victim's head. He rubbed the charcoal on the unconscious woman's hands. Pulling a wooden cross from his pack, he placed it on the carpet just above the victim's head. He cast a look around the living room. It was coming together just as he’d planned.
He then placed the gun inside the prosecutor’s purse and placed that in her bedroom. Tucking his shoulder bag up under his arm, he pulled his cop hat low across his eyes and exited the condo.
The elevator lowered him to the basement of the condominium tower, down to the visitors' level, where the man stepped back into the shadows.
An hour later, he saw the black Mercedes arrive and take the only remaining visitor's slot. He watched as the lawyer exited the Mercedes and hurried for the elevators. Making him was easy: his license plate said SET U FREE.
Twenty minutes later, Stormont heard the sound of far-off sirens coming closer. When he heard the sirens shut down just outside the building’s entrance,
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