The Sam Prichard Series - Books 9-12 (Sam Prichard Boxed Set 3)

by David Archer

  At seven, he pointed the car toward the airport and followed the signs to get to the terminal parking lots. He parked and limped inside just in time to see the arrival of Ken’s flight posted on the board, so he made his way to the debarking area, where passengers would come down into the terminal before heading for baggage claim. He wondered if he would even recognize Ken, but it turned out not to be an issue. Fifteen minutes passed, and then Ken came strolling toward him.

  “Well, if it isn’t my favorite private eye,” Ken said. He broke into a smile and spread his arms, and Sam opened his own so that they could exchange a manly hug.

  “Good to see you, Ken,” Sam said. “I just wish it was under better circumstances.”

  “Yeah, me, too. Leon says this is off the books, because even he isn’t sure he believes it, but I told him if Sam Prichard says it’s so, that’s good enough for me. What’ve we got going on?”

  “Let’s get your bags, then we can talk in the car. We’re meeting Harry and his wife for dinner.”

  Ken hefted the thick carryon in his hand. “I travel light. Did you say Harry and his wife?”

  “Yeah, it’s a long story. Come on.” He led the way out to the parking lot and to the car, and Ken tossed his bag into the back seat before climbing into the front. Sam got behind the wheel and started the car, then motioned for quiet as he approached the gate and paid the parking fee to get out.

  Once they were out on the road, he looked over at Ken and grinned. “So, how much do you know?”

  “Leon said Michael Reed was supposedly murdered in his home, and that Harry Winslow is the prime suspect. He also said that you have come to the conclusion that the body they’ve got at the morgue isn’t Michael, even though every form of identification seems to say it is. You want to let me in on the rest of the story?”

  “Here’s the short version. Thirty-odd years ago, Michael Reed was Michael Watkins, and he and Harry were best buds. They worked together, and I gather they were pretty close, but Michael apparently had a thing for Harry’s wife, Kathleen. He arranged for Harry to be sent on a secret mission into Cambodia or somewhere, and while he was gone, he told Kathleen that Harry had been killed by Russian agents and the KGB was coming to kill her and her children. Apparently he had whatever documentation was necessary to convince her, because she let him take her and the kids to Brazil and set up all new identities for them. A few months later, and remember that she thought she was a widow, they got married.”

  “Son-of-a-bitch,” Ken said. “Are you sure Harry didn’t kill him? I would have.”

  “I’m not sure he wouldn’t have gotten the job done eventually, because—well, you know Harry. In this case, though, I’m absolutely certain he didn’t kill Michael because Michael isn’t dead. A week or so back, maybe less, Michael went to DC on the day that Harry was being retired and left an envelope in his apartment. Inside the envelope was a note Kathleen had written, sort of a ‘making memories’ kind of thing, and two pictures that showed the kids a few years older than they would have been when they supposedly died, and another picture of her and Michael all cuddly on a beach somewhere.”

  “I’ll say it again, son-of-a-bitch! And this went on for how long?”

  “More than thirty years. Harry went just a bit berserk when he saw that stuff, and then he came to me. It took Indie almost no time to track them down to their place here in Clearwater. Harry and I got into a private jet and flew down night before last, and yesterday morning we knocked on the door.”

  “And how did that work out for you?”

  “Kathleen answered the door, and she was definitely surprised to see Harry standing there. She let us in, and told us how all this had gone down, but that she had found out Harry was alive back when he and I worked on that Lake Mead thing. I guess she confronted Michael about it, and that’s when he told her that if she said anything or tried to contact Harry, he would kill both of them.”

  Sam paused for a moment as Ken shifted in the seat so he was facing him. “So Harry definitely had motive. Is there any actual evidence that he was involved in the killing?”

  ”Just a witness who claims to have seen someone fitting Harry’s description go into the house just before the gunshots were. Anyway, while she was explaining all this to us, Michael walked in—I forgot to mention he was supposed to be on a plane, headed for Japan at the time—and pointed a gun at us all.”

  “You get yourself into the damnedest little messes, don’t you? What happened then?”

  “Well, we listened to him go on and on for a bit about how he decided to bring it all to a head, so that it would never come back to bite him in the ass. He wanted Harry and me to just walk away, forget all about it, and he made it plain that he wouldn’t hesitate to kill anyone we were close to, in order to force us to cooperate. The thing is, It seemed to me that all he was really after was a way to keep the wealth and position he had built for himself, so I pitched the idea of him and Kathleen getting a divorce that let him keep it all, along with a pledge to never, ever tell anyone the truth. Since we all knew he could reach out and touch us anytime he wanted to, I figured there was a chance I could sell him on it, and he agreed. He even went so far as to tell Kathleen to come back next week to pack her things, just to take a small bag with her for the moment, and then he made her call her kids and bring them over to the house. She had to tell them that Harry was her boyfriend, that the two of them were having an affair and that Michael had found out, so they were getting a divorce.”

  “These kids are what, now, in their thirties? How did they take it?”

  “Well, the daughter went a little nuts on her mom, but her son took it in stride. Everything seemed to be working out when we left, but then Kathleen gets a call—while Harry was out running around hunting for cigars, no less—that Michael had been murdered, and the police detective wanted to speak with her. She told him where she was, at the hotel, and he got there just a few minutes after Harry got back.”

  “Okay, I’m going to ask again, are you certain Harry didn’t kill him? This is all pretty circumstantial evidence, I grant you, but it sure looks convincing to me.”

  “You want to hear the story? Then shut up and let me tell it. Okay, so anyway, we all talk to the police detective and Harry even admits he wasn’t in the room when Michael was apparently murdered, that he was out running around town by himself. Next thing you know we’re headed downtown, but we’re talking on the way about how it looks like Harry has literally been set up to take the fall on this, and it dawns on me that the only witness that could possibly give him an alibi is the clerk at the tobacco store. If the killer wanted Harry to take the fall, there couldn’t be an alibi. I got the police detective to stop, and he sent squad cars out to that tobacco shop.”

  “Let me guess,” Ken interrupted. “The clerk was dead, right?”

  Sam nodded. “Neck was broken, and he was stuffed up under the counter. So the detective interviews the three of us, and finally we leave to head back to the hotel. Kathleen calls the kids, who by this time knew that the man they knew as their father was dead, and they come over to talk. Naturally, they think Harry must’ve done it, so Kathleen and I talked to them alone for a while. Once they began to get a grasp of the real, true story, which didn’t go over very well with either of them to be honest, they finally decided to give Harry the benefit of the doubt. They took him and Kathleen down to the restaurant to talk, and that’s when the detective called and said he had a warrant for Harry’s arrest, because of this witness who came out of the woodwork, somewhere, and said she had seen a white-haired old man with a white goatee going into Michael’s house shortly before the gunshots were heard. They had done a GSR test on Harry’s hands, and of course it came back positive. Gunshot residue never goes away, you should know that.”

  “Right. FBI says they found it on people who have never even touched a gun.”

  “Which is why they don’t test for it, anymore. Anyway, Harry got arrested and Kathleen got called to iden
tify the body the next morning. She went to the morgue and looked at it, but the face had been completely blown away so she had to rely on identifying marks. The body had a tattoo that she recognized, and some scars that Michael had, so she confirmed the identification. After that, she and I met at the courthouse to be present at Harry’s initial appearance. The judge set bail, and Kathleen and I went to have lunch while we waited for the bondsmen to do their jobs. Harry called us right after lunch and said he’d made bail, so we went and picked him up and I took them back to the hotel. After that, I headed for the Police Department to look at the file on the case.”

  “Wait, what? The detective let you see the case file?”

  Sam grinned. “Harry had called up to DHS and rattled some chains, so I was appointed as their Special Investigator for this case. I don’t think the job pays anything, but it opens doors like a bulldozer. By the time I got to the station, the detective already had been informed that he was to give me whatever cooperation I wanted. He handed the file over without a bit of argument, and I went through it. Most of it was standard police procedural stuff, but the crime scene photos were there. Now, I had spent quite some time sitting within fifteen feet of Michael Reed while he pointed a gun at me, so I had pretty well memorized the guy. One of the things I noticed clearly was that he had just recently trimmed his nails. In fact, they were so perfect it looked like he had a manicure, and of course he’s a rich guy so I figured maybe he did. The trouble was when I looked at the crime scene photos of the body, the nails were long and a little bit rough. They definitely had not been trimmed in at least a week.”

  “So? Everybody knows fingernails keep growing after you die.”

  “Actually, they don’t. What gives that appearance is the fact that the skin around the ends of the fingers begins to shrink back as it dries out. And even then, that effect takes days to show up, not just a few hours later. Those fingernails are incontrovertible proof, to me, that that body was not Michael Reed. Unfortunately, I made the mistake of telling the detective what I believed. I don’t think I actually sold him on it, but he at least reached the point that he was willing to consider the possibility. The only thing he did say was that he couldn’t take my opinion to the prosecutor without getting hauled off to the crazy house, and I can understand why he felt that way. Fingerprints, personal identification, next of kin all said it was Michael Reed; who did I think I was to try to overrule all that evidence?”

  Ken grunted. “If you tell me you believe Michael Reed is alive, I’m going to go with you. I’ve seen you in action, you don’t miss much. Anything else?”

  “Yeah,” Sam said. “This afternoon, I get a phone call from a restricted number. Bet you can guess who was on the other end of the line.”

  Ken’s eyes widened slightly. “Then we have confirmed that Reed is alive. I’m sure the police aren’t checking missing persons that might match his description; they’d have to believe what you’re telling them in order to do that. What’s your game plan?”

  30

  Michael woke up at just before five, thanks to the internal alarm clock he had developed over the years, then climbed out of the truck and walked into a fast food restaurant to use the bathroom and freshen up. He was back in the truck ten minutes later, and headed toward the restaurant Kate had taken Sam to for lunch. He wanted to be inside before the rest of them arrived.

  He got there with plenty of time to spare, then picked up a bag he had kept in the truck and began putting on a disguise.

  They can do wonderful things with latex, nowadays. A skullcap with dark brown hair in a male balding pattern went over the top of his head, covering his hair and fitting so snuggly against his skin that it would take very close examination to see where they met. His nose was covered by another prosthetic, but this one used adhesive to keep it in place, as did another that he stuck to his chin and jawline. That one even had stubbly whiskers, as if he hadn’t bothered to shave that day. An inflatable cushion went down the front of his pants and he tucked his shirt in over it, and suddenly he was an entirely different person. Without the jacket of his suit, he didn’t look anything like Michael Reed.

  He withdrew a pistol from the bag and shoved it down the back of his pants, then climbed out of the truck. He checked once more to be sure no one had seen him make the transformation, then walked into the restaurant and let the hostess seat him at a table near the back. It was a good line of sight to the door, and he would be able to see them easily when they arrived.

  For appearances’ sake, he went ahead and ordered dinner, and when it arrived he realized that he was genuinely hungry. He hadn’t taken any time to eat during the day, so he had been fasting since dinner the night before. He forced himself not to eat too quickly, though, so that he could stay long enough to see his quarry come to the door.

  It was after 6:30 by the time he realized that they weren’t coming. He should have expected it; he cursed himself for telling Sam that he was listening to his phone calls, because they obviously had changed their plans. He signaled the waiter for his check and gave the man 100-dollar bill, told him to keep the change and hurried out to the truck again.

  He picked up the tablet and checked the GPS location on Sam’s phone again, and realized Sam was just cruising around aimlessly. They had probably decided to let him pick Long up first, then meet for dinner somewhere else. Unfortunately, Michael wouldn’t be able to get to the airport in time to spot Sam’s new car, so he decided to scan the recordings from his phone again to see if there was a clue about where they might meet.

  He picked up where he had left off, after hearing Sam’s conversation with Detective Lawton, then skimmed through several minutes of nothing but engine and street noises before he came across another conversation. This one was with Heather and her mother, and Michael suddenly felt a chill. Heather had told Sam about her job and her relationship with Michael, which wasn’t that big a deal, but if Sam were to think for a few minutes about what she’d said, he’d be back to ask more questions that just might create a problem. If that happened, Heather would become a potential star witness against him, and could easily confirm Sam’s theory about the body not being Michael’s.

  It was time to do something about her. He allowed himself to feel the slightest twinge of regret as he put the truck in gear and headed toward Pine Brook Drive. Even that was going to take a while, since the restaurant was in Tampa, and he’d heard enough to know that they might already have left for Miami, but it was a loose end that had to be tied up. If she was gone, he had a contact in Miami that would have no trouble finding out where her aunt lived and taking care of the problem for him.

  He got to the neighborhood about forty minutes later, and cruised slowly past the house. He was in luck, because there were lights on inside. Heather and her mother had not left town yet. He went around the block and came at the house again from another direction, stopping the truck at a point where he could see the house clearly, but where it would be difficult for anyone else to see him.

  He thought about getting out of the truck and approaching the house, killing both women inside, but he could hear the dogs barking. They would almost certainly get even louder if someone came sneaking up toward the house, and the last thing he would need would be neighbors looking out to see why the dogs were making a fuss. He decided to wait a bit and hope for an opportunity to present itself, then reached behind the seat and pulled out the suppressed AR.

  He waited almost 15 more minutes, and then Lady Luck smiled on him. Heather came out the front door holding a suitcase, but instead of going toward the car in the driveway, she put it down and sat down on a bench on the porch. It looked like she was crying, but Michael didn’t let that stop him. He picked up the rifle and aimed it carefully, using the high-powered scope to draw a bead directly on her forehead.

  He let his breath out slowly, then squeezed the trigger, but Lady Luck was fickle. Just as he fired—a three-round burst that was accomplished by a simple modification to the sear pin
—Heather leaned forward and got to her feet. All three bullets penetrated the window behind her, and she suddenly screamed as she ran into the house.

  Michael swore and dropped the gun into the floorboard, then started the truck and took off. He didn’t plan on going far, but he didn’t want to be parked so close when the police arrived in a few minutes. He drove down a few blocks and turned around, so that he could watch from the truck when they arrived.

  Ten minutes later, when no police cars had come screaming toward the house, Michael began thinking about trying again. He was about to put the truck into gear when a car suddenly roared around a corner and slid to a stop in front of the house.

  Even without being able to look to the scope, Michael was certain that the car held Sam Prichard and Kenneth Long. He was convinced of it a second later, when two men jumped out and ran toward the front door.

  Seconds later, Heather’s mother came running out and dove into the car, and immediately afterward Michael saw both men hustling Heather between them. They stood watch as she got into the back seat with her mother, then they hurriedly got into the car and it sped away.

  Michael put the truck in gear at last and hurried to follow, keeping some distance between them. If they were taking Heather with them, he might get the opportunity to eliminate every possible threat to his plans all at once.

  If he did, this little setback would be well worth it. He kept his eyes on the Dodge Challenger as it slowed down to the speed limit, but was careful to keep a couple of cars between them. The last thing he needed was for Sam to figure out that he was being followed.

  Unfortunately, Sam Prichard was pretty sharp. It was only about ten minutes later when he made a surprise turn, but Michael was smart enough not to fall for it. He cruised past the intersection at normal speed, then found a place to pull over so that he could watch Sam’s movements on the tablet.