The Eustice Murders (Complete)

*Chapter 34*

Detectives Brookes and Moorland had gathered in Sam and Hank's office to discuss and compare notes on yesterday's events. Hank was present and was paying special attention, making sure he was up to date on everything that had happened while he was off.

"So, Hitzfeld's father was an Austrian?" Sarah queried.

"That is correct, yes," Dustin confirmed while Hank nodded. He knew he'd read that somewhere.

"And he was the only one that Armand ever played pool with?" she continued.

"Yep and even spoken to by the looks of things," Dustin Moorland again confirmed.

"So, everything he would have known about the game would have been European and possibly even outdated at that," Brookes continued. There was a slight pause in the conversation with Hank and Dustin looking at each other, waiting for further explanation. Sam, meanwhile, was already reaching for the file; he knew exactly where she was heading with this. "Sam, have you got that printout that was found with the ninth victim?" she asked.

"You mean this one?" Sam responded, already holding up the picture she was asking for.

"Oh...you...already," Sarah stuttered, giving Sam a large smile. Hank raised an eyebrow at that, remembering that morning when he had discovered her leaving Sam's apartment, although he never said anything.

"Yeah, don't worry I knew what you were getting at," Sam told her, returning the smile.

"The bit I was referring to is the sentence at the bottom," Sarah continued, turning her glances towards Hank and Dustin. " 'Are you ready for frame two, detectives?' In particular, the term 'frame two'. If you're not familiar with the game of pool, this is a term that Americans have never used. Some older Europeans used to use it but more modern players refer to the term 'RACKS' as we in the States always have done."

"Ah," Hank and detective Moorland both sighed and nodded, almost in unison as her point finally dropped.

"I knew we called them racks, but I had no idea where the word 'frame' came from. I wouldn't have gotten that," Dustin explained. "I like it; seems a pretty strong link to me."

"Yeah. Sam and I have spent a lot of time recently looking into the life of Armand Hitzfeld. I'm pretty convinced he's involved one way or another. It's just a matter of figuring out if he's working alone or if Anthony Drummond is helping him," Hank answered and the other three were all seemingly in agreement. Sam then stepped into the conversation.

"Of course, under normal circumstances, we'd bring him in for questioning but with the ongoing FBI investigation....," Sam paused while the other three closed their eyes and groaned. "Yeah exactly," he added, "so I guess all we can do right now is contact agent Masters again and see how far we can push it."

"In that case, I guess we'll leave you to it then," Sarah told them glancing around the room.

"Ok, well, thanks for your help," Sam told her.

"Yeah, thanks guys, you've been brilliant," Hank added, nodding towards detective Moorland.

"No problem," Sarah Brookes smiled. "Glad to help. Anything else and you know where we are so just shout," she added on her way out.

Over the next couple of days, the guys had several chats with agent Masters and they had discovered that the FBI was planning a sting operation towards the end of the week. The trafficking ring was known to be planning for the arrival of a new shipment of victims and they were intending to be waiting for them on the dockside, ready to make all of their arrests in one go. So, if Sam and Hank could wait for that to happen, then all would be good.

After they got that information, Hank called it a day and arrived home slightly later than usual but his apartment was still empty. 'Hm, she must be still at the beach,' he thought to himself as he moved from room to room, not seeing his wife anywhere.

Suddenly, he spotted a piece of paper on one of the countertops. As he stepped nearer to it, he could make out the words, 'missing something detective?' printed on the outside. He glanced around the place, noting that everything was where it should have been. He picked up the paper with a slight frown and unfolded it. He then flipped it over to the other side and what he saw shook him to the core; an image that would scar him for life.

His heartbeat began to race and he gasped for breath as he fell to his knees, staring at the picture of his wife. Her eyes were open but she was clearly afraid. She had been positioned laying flat out on her back, her arms down by her side. There was also a pool ball sitting just below her chest with the number two pointing directly towards the ceiling. Just for good measure, a length of paracord could be seen rolled up and placed beside her neck.

"S...S....SA....SA.......SA...SAM!" he screamed out with every ounce of strength he had in him. Or at least he thought he did. In reality, he was so far in shock that what had actually come out was a mere whimper something that wouldn't have been heard in another room let alone another apartment. Hank tried to compose himself and with every last bit of energy he could muster, he grabbed hold of the countertop and slowly climbed back up to his feet.

He staggered towards the door, falling against it as if he was drunk and unable to control his faculties. Finally, he managed to open it and dragged himself out into the corridor. Stumbling and swaying off in the direction of Sam's place leaving his own door wide open. He banged at Sam's door with his fists each time getting harder and louder.

Sam violently swung the door open. "WHAT THE...," he started to shout before seeing Hank. His color completely drained from his face as he took in Hank's erratic breathing and tears streaming down the side of his face. "Hank? What on earth? What's Happened?"

"He.....bastard.....he......got....Bev.....," Hank mumbled, unable to get his words out while still gasping for air.

"OK, deep breaths buddy, deep breaths and try again, nice and slow this time," Sam told him, placing his hands on his shoulders. Hank looked at his partner and after taking several deep breaths; he slowly held the piece of paper out, his hand shaking like a leaf.