by Rick Reed
“Hi, Katie,” Liddell said, and wrapped her in a bear hug. “Congratulations.” He mouthed the word at her so Jack wouldn’t hear.
She stood on tiptoes to peck Liddell on the cheek, then turned to Jack and said, “If you’re here for Moira, she’s upstairs.”
Jack recognized the look on Katie’s face. It said that Moira was in a mood and he should tread lightly. “I’m not here to yell at her. She called me,” he said defensively, and headed for the stairs.
Liddell put an arm around Katie’s shoulders and led her toward the kitchen. “Do you have something to eat in there? Jack never eats, you know.”
Moira was sitting with her back to the bedroom doorway, and the glow from her laptop monitor was the only light in the room. This had been the nursery once upon a time, and Jack felt a twinge of unease at seeing a twin bed, a small dresser and a desk crowded into the room. He wondered if it would have looked like this if Caitlin had survived. She would be seven next month.
Noticing his presence, Moira jumped up and pulled him into the room. Her words came out in a torrent. “I went to the office to do some work and found this taped to the underside of Nina’s desk. It has to be Nina’s. Don’t you think? It must be important or she wouldn’t have tried to hide it. And then I thought I should give it to Eric or Trent, but it was late and I decided to take it home and give it to them in the morning, and then Eric grabbed me from behind when I stepped out of the office and accused me of snooping. So here,” she said, and dropped the flash drive into his palm.
Jack’s gaze moved slowly from the flash drive in his hand up to her face.
She realized her mistake. “I’m so sorry, Jack. I shouldn’t have touched it, should I? I mean, fingerprints and whatnot?”
“It’s okay, Moira,” he said. But what he wanted to say was, “What were you thinking?”
“I guess I shouldn’t have opened the files either,” she said, but he could tell she wasn’t sorry at all.
“Let’s see what’s on it,” he said, handing the drive back to her.
She snapped it into a port on the computer and then tapped a few keys on the keyboard. The screen saver was replaced with two icons whose titles were strings of numbers. She double-clicked the icon on the left and a list appeared. The list was composed of three columns. The first column was a long set of numbers and capital letters. The second column was dates, and the third column was sequential numbers beginning at zero-one.
“What is this?” Jack asked.
“I think the first column of numbers might be internally assigned numbers for cases. The prosecutor’s office uses these to track assignments,” she explained. “The middle column might be dates and times. The last column might be how many cases are included in the folder. I’m not sure.”
Jack raised his eyebrows. “And why would Nina have this?”
Moira grinned and said, “I found out a little about her today from my training supervisor, Abbey. One of Nina’s jobs was to create spreadsheets of each deputy prosecutor’s caseload. Trent apparently tries to keep the case assignments spread evenly among the attorneys.”
Jack was familiar with the concept, but he also knew that if the prosecutor’s office was anything like the police department, that kind of system wouldn’t work. Some people worked hard and others did the bare minimum.
He toted up about two dozen numbers on the list. “Surely these aren’t all of the cases that were assigned,” he pointed out. “Can we find out what these cases are? Whom they were assigned to?”
Moira excitedly clicked that folder closed and double-clicked the other icon. This one was a list of picture files. He noticed that the numbers for some of these were the same as the string of numbers and letters on the first set of files.
Moira opened one of the photo files and it revealed a scanned copy of a newspaper article from 1983. The headline read “Police Raid Massage Parlor.” The story dealt with prostitution, drug issues, and hinted at police corruption. Jack scanned down the page, but the material meant little to him. He recognized one or two of the names, but the article was pretty generic, and he had been in high school when it was written.
Moira clicked on the next file and another newspaper article appeared. This one was of a similar nature, dated a year earlier than the first.
“Who knows you have this?” Jack asked.
“No one,” Moira answered.
“You’re sure.”
“Yes,” she said. “Do you think it’s important?”
“Like you said. Why else would Nina hide it? Moira, are you absolutely sure no one saw you with this?”
She shook her head, but then she thought about Eric. “When I was at the office, I ran into Eric. He asked me about it.”
Jack wondered what Eric was doing at the office that time of night. “Do you think he saw it?”
Moira looked deflated and said, “I told him it was mine.”
Jack told her about the call from the captain. “We will need to investigate this, but we are going to start, right this minute, giving you as much cover as possible.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
The strip mall in Owensboro, Kentucky, was less than a twenty-minute drive from their room, and only twenty more minutes to Evansville. It was late and very few cars were parked in front. It reminded Clint of some of the towns where he grew up, with upscale shopping malls and sprawling homes on one side of the city—ghetto housing, bars, and pawnshops on the other. The haves and have nots, both white and black and Hispanic. He thought that maybe he’d go home for a visit when this job was finished. He hadn’t been home for a while.
He found a payphone in front of Radio Shack and called the boss while Book went to find coffee. When he finished the call, he spotted Book at a patio table in front of Tacos To Go. Two young ladies sitting in the front window of The Yogurt Shack had his full attention, sucking on sodas, casting furtive glances at Book and giggling behind their hands.
“They been watching me since I set down,” Book said.
Clint checked the ladies out. They were about fourteen. Book liked young girls; they were always good for some fun. But they wouldn’t be good for much else when Book was through with them.
“What did the boss say?” Book asked.
“I told her Murphy and his partner were on television,” Clint said. “She already knew. She said the client was nervous.”
“The client is nervous?” Book asked.
“Yeah. Nervous. The police found the bodies in the creek,” Clint said.
Book sipped his coffee. “So we’re done. It’s over.”
Clint shook his head. “She wants us to stay. Gave me addresses for the two cops. Wants us to stick close to them.”
Book cast one last glance toward the girls and let out a deep sigh. “Does she want us to kill the cops?”
“She didn’t say.”
“So how we gonna know what to do? We can’t be calling her every five minutes,” Book said.
“I took care of that. I bought a disposable cell phone at Radio Shack. We can use that instead of a pay phone. I gave her the number so she can call us,” Clint said.
“We never needed a cell phone before. This should be over by now.”
Back at their car, Book asked, “I wonder who the client is? I mean, why is he so important?”
Clint was wondering the same thing. “Maybe she wants us here in case the client needs to be whacked?”
“That’d be okay with me. I say let’s get it done with.”
They walked to the van and Clint’s pocket started vibrating. He looked at the screen and the caller was blocked. “Hello.”
“Rush job,” the feminine voice said. “Write this address down.”
Clint dug in his pockets for a pen and Book gave him a scrap of paper. He listened and wrote, and then disconnected the call.
“What?” Book asked.
He showed the slip of paper to Book, saying, “We go to this address and recover a computer flash drive. Murphy and hi
s partner are there with some girl. The girl has the drive. The boss says it’s a priority.”
Book slammed a fist into his palm. “About time.”
They arrived twenty minutes later at the two-story colonial set at the end of a cul-de-sac. The lawn was perfect and the railed porch had huge wooden flower boxes full of flowering vines. From what the boss told him the house belonged to Murphy’s ex-wife. Women were always decorating, Clint thought. It was in their DNA.
He spotted Murphy’s Crown Vic in the driveway, and picked a surveillance spot under a huge oak tree whose limbs hung precariously out over the street. He was positioned at a cross street so as to not attract attention if they had to follow the detective. The van was almost invisible in the dark.
“So what’s the plan?” Book asked.
“The plan is we wait until he splits. Then we go in and mess with them.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
“Thanks for coming to talk to her,” Katie said.
“She’s hardheaded. I want you to know that I didn’t intend for her to get involved in any of this.”
She gave Jack a hug and a peck on the cheek—something she hadn’t done for a while. It felt both affectionate and strictly arm’s-length at the same time. “She’s my sister. I know how she is.”
“Okay, I’ll get him out of here,” he said, hooking a thumb over his shoulder at Liddell, “before he gets hungry again.”
Moira appeared in the doorway. “Thanks for coming so quickly. I really didn’t know what to do.”
Jack patted his pocket. “Thank you for saving this for me,” he said. “I’ll give it to you first thing in the morning and you can turn it over to Eric. Have you thought of an excuse for lying to him?”
She feigned a hurt look and said, “I’m an attorney, Jack. I don’t lie. I just tell the truth the way it’s most convenient.”
Jack shook his head. When Trent Wethington found out she’d taken evidence out of the office, she might not have a job.
CHAPTER FORTY
Jack pulled in behind police headquarters and parked next to Liddell’s unmarked police car. “Is this close enough for your poor tired feet and your growing waistline?”
“I’ll bet you say that to all the girls,” Liddell said, and winked.
They got out and looked at the night sky. The moon was full and surrounded by clouds the color of blood. That seemed appropriate for the season Jack had been having.
“Native Americans called it Hunter’s Moon, and sometimes Blood Moon,” Liddell said. “It’s rumored to have mystical powers to draw prey out in the open. Maybe it’ll work in our favor, pod’na.”
Or maybe not. “Go home, Bigfoot. Tell that wife of yours to call Katie sometime. I think she would like to talk about something else besides work.”
“Will do. How about letting me take a look at that gizmo?” Liddell said, surprising Jack.
Jack dug in his pocket and handed over the flash drive.
“Knock yourself out,” he said. “Just be sure to get your beauty sleep. The autopsy on Hope Dupree is scheduled for eight in the morning. We have to get Garcia to make a copy of that thingamajig and give it back to Moira before the autopsy.”
“Gotcha.”
As Liddell slid into his car and drove out of the parking lot, Jack looked skyward. It was the third night of a full moon, and the superstition attached to the full moon had so far proven itself. All hell had broken loose. All he wanted now was three fingers of Glenmorangie single malt Scotch poured over lots of ice, and some sleep. In that order.
Clint had parked in the Superior Court building, just on the other side of a tall hedge from where the two detectives were talking. He heard them discussing the flash drive. He didn’t think they were going to take it into the police station, but he secretly hoped they would. That would be that. Maybe he could get the hell out of Evansville then. But then he heard the one called Liddell take the flash drive from his partner and take it home with him. He headed back to the van.
Liddell’s tan Crown Vic drove down Sycamore and went straight. Clint started the van and headed for Walnut Street, where he could get ahead of the Crown Vic heading east on Lloyd Expressway.
“You got the address for that one, right?” Book asked with an edge of excitement to his voice.
“Yeah, the boss gave it to me. His name is—”
“I don’t care give a crap what his name is,” Book snarled. “Just keep driving while I punch the address into the GPS. He’s going to have a surprise when he gets home.”
Clint followed directions until the voice on the GPS announced, “You have arrived at your destination.” He found a space and had just backed the van into it when the Crown Vic came down the street. The driver seemed to be in no hurry to get out of the car.
“Showtime,” Book said. They exited the van carrying aluminum baseball bats and wearing holstered Beretta 9mm handguns—just in case. Pounding the hell out of an unsuspecting person should be a piece of cake, but this was a cop. Kind of scary. Kind of fun.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
The red Camaro came to a screeching halt in front of the emergency entrance at St. Mary’s Hospital, and Katie and Moira rushed through the doors. A half dozen uniformed officers were milling around the waiting room, and another came to his feet from behind the security desk as the startled receptionist looked up. Katie and Moira disregarded them and pushed through the double doors into the treatment room.
“You can’t go back there,” the receptionist called out, but not one of the uniformed officers made a move to stop them.
An armed officer did move to block the upcoming doorway, then recognized Katie and his features softened. “I’m really sorry, Mrs. Murphy, but you can’t come in yet. Doctor’s orders, ma’am.”
“Let them in, Bobby,” a familiar voice said from inside.
Katie and Moira entered the room and found a curtain drawn around a hospital bed. When a nurse parted the curtain, Moira’s hand went to her mouth.
“Oh, my God!” she said, seeing the unconscious bloody shape on the bed.
A young ER doctor was standing to one side while a nurse took vitals and monitors beeped and IV bags dripped into flaccid arms.
“Is he . . . is he . . . ?” Katie tried to get the words out, but she couldn’t breathe.
From a chair in the corner Jack said, “He’s alive.”
Marcie refused to leave her husband’s side, but an orderly led Jack, Katie, and Moira to a small room down the hallway where they could wait. Jack told them what he knew.
He had dropped Liddell off behind headquarters and was on Highway 41 heading home when his phone rang. The caller ID showed it was Liddell, so he picked up expecting to hear a bad joke.
“Jack! Oh, God, help me, Jack! He’s dying!”
The voice was so shrill, he didn’t realize at first that it was Marcie. Despite all his training and experience, he didn’t react. Couldn’t move. Then he slewed the Crown Vic across the grass median and stomped the gas all the way to the floor. He struggled to hear Marcie over the roar of the big engine.
“I shot him! Oh, God, he’s not moving!”
Her words weren’t making sense. Who had she shot? Liddell? “Where are you?”
“At home. I shot one of them! They were wearing masks. They kept hitting him, and—Oh, God, Jack! He’s not moving! He’s so bloody!”
“Stay on the line, Marcie. Don’t hang up. I’m getting help,” he said, and grabbed his radio mic. “Marcie. Don’t hang up.”
He called police dispatch and had to yell at the call taker to shut up and listen.
The call taker said, “We’ve already dispatched officers to that address reference a shots fired call. I’ll dispatch an ambulance.” Then he heard the call for AMR.
From Marcie’s end he heard sirens coming. Ambulance and police units were arriving. He himself was less than a mile away. He arrived to a symphony of red and blue flashing lights and found Marcie on her front porch. A third shift officer nam
ed Rodriguez was standing with her. A Glock .45 was stuck under his gun belt in the back of his pants, and he explained that he had taken it from Marcie after a few anxious moments of her refusing to give it up. The gun had been fired. He’d checked the clip. Empty.
Jack thought the gun was the one Liddell had bought for home security. He remembered Liddell said he was giving Marcie shooting lessons. Marcie said on the telephone that she shot one of the suspects. He hoped she had killed him, but he didn’t see any bodies, so they must have gotten away.
“What happened, Marcie?”
“I was in bed and I heard him yelling,” she said. “I’ve never heard him like that. From the window I saw two men standing over him. I must have grabbed the gun when I came outside. I don’t remember. But the two of them were big. Both big guys. Wearing masks. And they had bats! Baseball bats, Jack! And they kept hitting him and hitting him and he wasn’t moving.”
Liddell had been loaded into the back of an ambulance and the paramedics were closing the doors.
“Please! I need to be with him,” Marcie cried.
“Hey!” Jack yelled at the ambulance crew. “Hold up a second.”
He put an arm around her shoulders and led her to the ambulance. He helped her into the back and asked, “Did you see what they were driving?”
Tears were streaming down her face. “I didn’t warn them. I just pulled the trigger. I heard one of them scream. Then they ran to the van . . .”
“That’s good, Marcie. That’s good. Now, what color was the van?”
“White. I think. I’m not sure. I kept pulling the trigger until it wouldn’t shoot anymore.”
“We’ve got to go,” a paramedic said, and shut the door.