by Rick Reed
“Can you print out a list of the names of all the women on the disc? Then call Kim Hammond in Narcotics. See how many of them are working as CI’s for the narcotics unit.”
Moira was very pleased. “You mean you think I’m right?”
CHAPTER FIFTY
The police upper brass had a small parking area behind the police department. Not much more than a carport, it was a gathering place for the high-ranking smokers. Captain Franklin was just lighting Brooke’s cigarette when they spotted Jack exiting the building.
“There’s your new partner,” Franklin said. “Looks like you’ve tracked down your prey.”
Jack was beginning to feel like prey after having gone out of his way to escape from the building unseen, and yet here Brooke was. He had to give her credit for tenacity.
“Don’t look so surprised, Detective Murphy,” she said. The end of her cigarette glowed as she took a long pull. Small curls of smoke escaped her mouth and nose and curled around her face as she spoke. She squinted one eye closed and waved at the smoke before continuing.
“I think your face is on fire,” Jack said, puzzled as always by why someone would willingly ingest toxic hot air into her lungs. “How did you get out here so quickly? You must tell me your secret.”
“So, you’ve already met Special Investigator Wethington,” Captain Franklin said.
Wethington? Jack’s cheeks flushed and his eyes locked on hers. Brooke stared back defiantly.
“Yes, Jack. Trent is my uncle,” she admitted. “It’s not relevant.”
Jack couldn’t believe this. “It sure as hell is relevant! The prosecutor—your uncle—wants to pull me off a case because my partner got beat up. But then he gives the case to his own niece? How’s that work?”
She stood her ground. “I was under the impression we were working this case together.”
“She’s right, Jack. This case is too important to squabble over jurisdiction,” Franklin said, stepping in to settle the dispute. “And it sounds as if her assistance will be a blessing.”
Franklin was right about that, Jack had to admit. Things that would take his own people weeks to accomplish, Brooke could get the state lab to do at lightning speed. But he didn’t like the fact that he hadn’t been informed that Trent was her uncle. Now her first loyalty would be to family and not to the investigation.
“Were you going somewhere in particular?” she asked.
“It’ll wait until I bring you up to speed,” Jack grumbled. “Walk with me.”
When they had pulled a certain distance away, he said, “I’m going to trust you with something, Brooke, but you have to keep it between us.” She looked doubtful, so he added, “Just for the time being.”
“It depends on what it is.”
“I’m going to come clean with you about the investigation. But in return I want your word none of this will get back to your uncle.”
“I don’t work for the prosecutor, Jack. I work for the State Police. But again, it depends on what you tell me,” Brooke answered.
“Take a ride with me?”
She shrugged and said, “Lead on.”
Soon they were headed east on the expressway. He pulled out his cell phone and made a call. Brooke listened to Jack’s side of the conversation.
“I’m bringing someone to see you. Yeah. I’ll be there in a few minutes.” A slight pause and then, “Will do.” He hung up.
“Do I have to call you if I want to know where we’re going?”
“Sorry, I had to prepare them. Marcie is family. I don’t know how all of this has affected her,” Jack explained.
“I thought your partner went home from the hospital.”
“I guess I can give you the nickel version since we’ll be there in a few minutes,” Jack said, and began his story. He began with Moira’s finding the flash drive in Nina’s old office. Brooke already knew about the flash drive’s existence from talking to Eric and Trent this morning, but she thought it was lost when Liddell was attacked.
Jack said, “This is the part I want you to keep to yourself—for just a bit.” Brooke didn’t reply, so Jack took that for a yes.
“Moira made a copy of the flash drive and gave it to me this morning. I had my computer analyst review it. There are two sets of files. The first set were Superior and Circuit Court cases. Most were recent, with some going back twenty years. All of them were from Indiana, and most were local. Only three people from the prosecutor’s office were involved in every case that was listed on the flash drive.”
He looked over to see if she was following, and she was paying full attention. “All of the cases involved women, drugs, prostitution, and most of them were given a pass by the prosecutor’s office in exchange for becoming confidential informants.” He didn’t tell Brooke his suspicion that Eric was involved in this all the way up to his curlies.
“So you think what was on the flash drive is connected to the recent murders?”
Jack couldn’t tell by her expression if she was taking him seriously or blowing his theory off. “And by association, you think it has something to do with the prosecutor’s office.”
Jack nodded.
“You say there are three prosecutors named?”
Jack had expected the question, and that was where his theory was weakest. “Yes,” he admitted.
“And you say some of the cases go back twenty years?”
Jack nodded, and said, “Yes. So the only thing those have in common with the newer cases is that Trent was the prosecutor during the entire time.” He saw the hostile look she gave him, and he added quickly, “But I’m not suspecting Trent.”
Brooke didn’t respond right away. He had to imagine she didn’t like the implications involving her uncle. “How do you know that the flash drive belonged to Nina? And if it did, how do you know she wasn’t doing something legitimate?”
Jack explained, “Moira found it taped to the underside of Nina’s desk. What’s that tell you?”
“Again, how can you prove it was Nina’s? Were her prints on it?”
“Come on, Brooke. Even if the flash drive wasn’t stolen, the prints would have been ruined by Moira, you know that.”
“Okay. So what? Is that all you’ve got?”
Jack told her his other theory—that there were two or more killers involved in these slayings—and to his surprise she didn’t laugh at the idea.
“I can see there being more than one person doing the killings, but that would mean they were working as a team, and that’s not very common,” she said. “But how can you prove the same guys who beat up your partner and stole the flash drive are involved in the murder of Nina Parsons? You have to admit that’s a stretch.”
Jack agreed. “That’s why we’re going to Liddell’s house. I’m going to let you question his wife. Maybe she remembers something new.”
Brooke looked straight ahead, her face unreadable. “You sure you don’t want to blindfold me?”
“Great idea. But it would mess up your hair.”
“Is that a sexist remark?”
Jack glanced at her. “Yes.”
“Okay. Just so we’re clear.”
He wound through upscale homes with ornate fences and landscaping that would require a crew of gardeners. Liddell lived on the far side of this neighborhood in an older subdivision where the yards were only separated by courtesy and the neighbors often helped each other with the yard work, or to drink a beer, or come over for a spur-of-the-moment cookout.
Jack pulled to the curb behind a black-and-white. A uniformed officer the size of a house walked out of Liddell’s front door with a sandwich in one hand and a Coke in the other.
“That’s Floyd,” Jack said, and Floyd nodded at them. “Floyd, this is Indiana State Police Special Investigator Brooke Wethington.”
Floyd looked her over and, unimpressed, muttered, “He’s expecting you,” and went back to his car.
Without knocking, Jack opened the front door and motioned for Brooke to go
in first.
A woman’s voice came from down the hall: “We’re in the kitchen, Jack.”
Liddell sat on a stool behind the kitchen island. His right arm—covered from knuckles to elbow with a cast—was propped on a small pillow on top of the marble countertop. He was wearing an unbuttoned short-sleeve shirt. His exposed chest and stomach were covered with bruises. The sleeves had been removed from the shirt, and a rip ran halfway down the right side. Above the cast, from elbow to shoulder, was covered in purple bruises. His face was fading from purple to yellow, with both eyes black and swollen almost shut. Raccoon eyes. It feels worse than it looks, Jack remembered from experience. The way Liddell was sitting, with the ripped shirt and all, he looked like the Hulk—only purple.
“This must be Brooke,” Liddell said, and raised his uninjured arm to take her hand.
“Detective Brooke Wethington,” she said. “Indiana State Police, Special Investigations Unit.”
“Wow!” Liddell said with a grin. “That’s a mouthful! Are you related to Trent Wethington?”
“He’s my uncle,” she said. “My dad’s a retired state trooper, and no, my mom wasn’t a state trooper.”
“So this is what an Indiana State Police Special Investigator looks like in person.”
“Don’t start picking on her,” Marcie said, and playfully tapped him on the leg.
“Before now you were just an urban legend among the other police departments. It’s like finding out Santa Claus is really coming to town.” He winced in pain, his hand going to his jaw.
He noticed Brooke was trying not to stare and said with a grin, “It’s okay. By the end of the week I’ll look like a rainbow. Then I’m going to San Francisco and march in the Dorothy Parade.”
Jack said, “Ignore him. He’s on a lot of pain medication. And even when he’s not, he isn’t always right in the head.”
Brooke smiled and turned her attention to Marcie. “Jack said you didn’t see the suspects’ faces. But we wondered if you remembered anything later.”
Jack nodded that she could answer.
“No,” Marcie said. “Only . . .”
“What is it, Marcie?” Jack asked.
She looked embarrassed. “You’ll think this is silly, Jack.” She reached for Liddell’s hand and squeezed it. “It’s just that when the guys were running away, they did it like—well, like the way I’ve seen the police practice when you’re shooting and running.” She paused, thinking about that image. “Like a team.”
Jack thought, Cops?
“You think they were cops?” Brooke asked.
Marcie shook her head. “That’s not what I said. Look, it’s just my opinion, but they weren’t running like ordinary criminals. These guys ran like a team. Like they had done this before.”
“Soldiers,” Liddell suggested.
“Yeah!” Marcie almost shouted the word. “Like those film clips on CNN where they show soldiers in battle. They ran like that.”
They were depending on surprise, but what they got was an angry woman with a gun. Jack was glad Captain Franklin had assigned an officer to guard Liddell and Marcie.
“The flash drive is the key to this,” Jack murmured.
“I’m sorry I lost it, Jack,” Liddell said.
“Don’t worry about it. Moira made a copy.”
Liddell’s gaze moved to Brooke. “Is Moira in trouble?”
“She doesn’t work for me,” Brooke said. “I found out about the flash drive this morning. And I just found out about the copy and what was on it a few minutes ago.”
“For argument’s sake, let’s say these guys were after the flash drive,” Liddell said. “How could they have known about it? And how did they know I had it? And, best for last, how did they know where I live, and that I was coming home?”
“Eric knew,” Jack said. “Eric called Franklin and complained. He accused me of sending Moira into the office to snoop around. He knew about the drive before I did.” He didn’t have to say that Eric also could find out where Liddell lived.
“But how did they know that I had the thing?” Liddell persisted. “You were carrying it until we got to headquarters. And again, how did they know that it wasn’t at Katie’s? I mean, I’m glad they didn’t go there, but still. Do you think someone was outside the house and then the police station listening?”
“That’s pretty far-fetched,” Brooke said. “I know. The government has a bug on your car, Jack.”
Jack could tell by Brooke’s stiff posture that she didn’t believe the attackers had targeted Liddell because of the flash drive, and honestly, he didn’t care if she believed it or not. This was his case. She was just along for the ride.
Jack sauntered over to give Liddell’s medical getup a closer look. “You didn’t spend enough of my tax money already,” he said to change the topic. “You had to get a cast, too?”
“Two casts, pod’na,” Liddell said.
Jack and Brooke walked around the kitchen island and saw another cast on his lower left leg.
“They only come in white,” Liddell complained. “I wanted fluorescent orange.”
Marcie put in, “He has a hairline fracture. They didn’t find it when they brought him in because he was in and out of consciousness. We discovered the injury to his leg the hard way this morning when I was helping the nurse get him dressed to leave.”
“Yeah, boy!” Liddell exclaimed. “I’d been on a bedpan because they didn’t want me to get up. But when I tried to get up to get dressed, I fell flat on my face.”
Marcie leaned over and hugged him. “He’s so big he pulled me and the nurse down with him.”
Liddell waggled his eyebrows at Jack. “Threesome,” he said before Marcie could clap a hand over his mouth.
Jack chuckled, but he’d had enough of Liddell’s foolery. He had gotten what he had come for: a further clue about his mystery duo.
“Okay, well, you figure out that. I have to go. Unlike some people out on medical leave, I have a case to solve.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
“So, what aren’t you telling me?” Brooke asked Jack when they were driving back to headquarters.
“What makes you say that?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe because of the looks you and your partner kept giving each other when you thought I wasn’t watching. Maybe because I’m an experienced investigator. Maybe just because I’m a woman and I can always tell when a man is lying. And yes, that’s a sexist remark.”
Jack had a simple answer. “You’re Trent’s niece. You might not want to know what I’m thinking.”
“I’m also your partner on this,” she said, sounding aggrieved. “I’m sorry you don’t have Liddell, but you’re stuck with me. We have a better chance of catching the killer, or killers, if we’re honest with each other. I can’t say or do anything to make you trust me, Jack. That’s up to you,” Brooke said, her arms held tight across her chest.
“Okay, we’ll call a truce. Let’s get coffee and donuts.” He knew just the place.
Penny Lane Coffee & Cigar Shop was located in an economically depressed area of the city. Churches of all denominations were scattered like Starbucks, popping up on every corner, selling salvation by the pound. The area, known as Rosedale, had once been the most prosperous part of the city, with ornate three-story mansions and English cottages that had been left to decay over the last forty years. Those grand old homes were now overrun with the homeless and the helpless.
Jack pulled to the curb in front of their destination. The two-story brick structure had housed many tenants over the years. It started out as a corner grocery, then a music store, then an antique store, and then an immigrant named Penny Landowskiwicz bought it and renamed it Penny Lane—a shortened version of her name.
The inside of the building hadn’t changed much with each new owner. They entered a large seating area lined by tall windows, with a small kitchen behind a long counter. Penny lived upstairs. She had tried to serve fancy gourmet drinks, but the neigh
borhood wouldn’t have it. Now she served coffee, tea, cigars, and privacy. There were none of those sissy drinks like lattes or frappes or skinnies or imitation flavors or colors made from bugs. The only thing that frothed in Penny Lane was the table of old codgers that complained about the world’s ills in their daily coffee clutch. They were curiously absent today. Maybe the battle was won or they had declared armistice.
A woman behind the counter was taking plates and mugs from a double sink and stacking them on trays to dry. Upon seeing Jack, she filled two mugs with steaming coffee and placed them on the counter. “Coffee in a dirty mug. Hot and black, the way you like your women, right, Jack?”
Jack grinned and handed one coffee to Brooke. “Penny, this is Brooke.”
Penny was mid-forties, very blond, and very beautiful with high cheekbones and piercing blue eyes. She reached a callused hand across and Brooke shook it.
“You better watch out for this one,” Penny said, and returned to her task.
They found a table by the window, and Jack noticed two men sitting at an outside table; one old, one maybe in his twenties. The older man was wearing a suit and looked hot and tired. The youngster wore shorts and a tank top with a slogan on the front that said, “Kill them all. Let God separate them.” His Oakland Raiders baseball cap was worn backward, and he appeared to be interviewing with the older man for a job.
“What do you think of the military angle?” Jack asked.
“It’s pretty thin,” she said, “but it would explain the propensity for violence.”
Jack had known a lot of ex-GIs, many of them hired by the police department after serving time in various places such as Iraq, Afghanistan, or, if they were lucky, some vacation spot like Hawaii or Germany. The department had their share of veteran old-timers, too, and they could tell some humdinger stories about Vietnam, but the ones who saw real fighting rarely spoke about it.