by Rick Reed
Brooke was right in her remark about the tendency to violence. The guys, and gals, that served their country seemed desensitized to it. The lack of shock at the violence going on around them helped on one hand, because they handled themselves better in combat situations. But it could also rob them of human emotions, any sharing of compassion or validation of the victims’ feelings. They were hardwired to do whatever it took to stay alive, and the military failed to switch them off before sending them home.
“Were you in the service?” Jack asked, and the question seemed to surprise her.
“Three years. Air Force. MP for two years, investigator the last year. I could have made a career but figured I was needed here,” she said. “You?”
“Army for three years. Intelligence, then a psychological warfare unit. Then college and the police academy, where I met my wife. My ex-wife.”
Brooke said, straight-faced, “Military intelligence is an oxymoron.”
Jack passed over the tired old joke. “I agree the military angle is thin,” he said, “but it could be important if we come up against these guys. Would you rather fight a couple of jokers who like to kill, or trained soldiers who are good at it but predictable?”
“Speaking of that, I’ve heard some things about you, too,” she said.
“Oh, goody,” he said. “I’m a legend, for starters.”
“Aren’t you a little bit interested in what I’ve heard?”
“Shoot,” he said, and added, “I mean that figuratively, of course.”
Brooke bored in on him. “Well, I heard that your ex-wife is engaged to Eric Manson. And I’ve heard that there is a betting pool on when—not if—you shoot him.”
Jack laughed out loud. “I guess it wouldn’t be fair if I placed a bet?”
“I’m sorry,” she said. “That was very rude of me.”
“That’s the way I like my women—rude and heavily armed.”
Jack was no stranger to violence. Or killing for that matter. But he’d never killed anyone who didn’t need it. He remained silent, waiting to see where this was going. He was curious about her as well. For example, why didn’t she like to carry a weapon? He noticed her hand nervously adjusting her holster constantly as she talked. It was as if she was bothered by its presence.
She changed the subject. “Okay, let’s talk about what you haven’t been telling me.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
Clint ended the call with the boss and dialed the number for the bank in the Caymans. The money was there. He placed the handset in the cradle and exited the phone booth. The boss had doubled their pay, but it wasn’t for free.
They had their final target. And this time they were told to kill anyone who got in the way. Clint would keep that in mind, but he decided not to tell Book.
New Harmony, Indiana, with its one traffic light and smattering of little shops, couldn’t be considered a city, but it was close to Evansville and two miles from the Illinois state line should the need arise for a hasty retreat. They had come here to call the boss, eat, and maybe find a new place to stay. They could accomplish two of these, but finding a room was a problem. There was only one place to stay—The Red Geranium. It was too busy and too fancy to not attract undue attention when they paid with cash. Even the bed-and-breakfasts were too pimped out.
On the way into town, Clint had spotted a tiny café on Main Street that looked like their style, and there was a coffee shop at the intersection.
While Clint made the call, Book had been waiting for him in a small park next to the town library. Clint came back and filled him in.
“Let’s go in the library and see if they have a computer,” Clint said.
“We know who the client is, Clint. What are you hoping to find?” Book said, and remained seated on a park bench. “We do this job, then we’re outta here. Just throw that thing in a trashcan. You need to get to a doctor and we can’t do that here.”
Clint ached all over. He knew Book was right, but he was curious. “Ten minutes.”
“Okay. Ten minutes. Then we go find some food.”
Inside, the library was the size of a large living room with books lining every square inch of available space. He hadn’t been in a library since he was a kid, but he remembered the dry smell that was both pleasant and cloying. In the back of the room was the sole librarian, a wizened old man with a twist of white hair rising straight up from the top of his otherwise bald head.
In the center of the room, a long wooden table held two desktop computers, the old-fashioned kind with a tower and separate monitor. Clint sat at one of those, and he became aware of a feverish sweat covering his forehead and upper lip. The pain in his side was getting worse. He had had Book change the dressing in a pull-off just outside town, and the area around the stitches was bright red, oozing pus, and it smelled of infection.
He pushed the flash drive into a bus port on the tower and used the mouse to open the files. The computer screen showed some newspaper articles without photos, and lists of numbers that didn’t mean anything.
“The stories are all about illegal massage parlors and court stuff.” He turned his head and looked at his partner. “You think that girl in Illinois was a prostitute? Or a druggie?” he asked.
Book shrugged and said in a low voice, “How the hell would I know?”
“Well, a bunch of these stories are about drug addicts and prostitutes. We’re wasting our time with this, Book. None of these names mean anything.”
“I told you it was a waste of time,” Book complained. “Let’s get something to eat and get back to our room.”
Clint unhooked the flash drive and put it in his pocket. It had been half a day since they’d eaten. Everything in Indiana seemed to be fried or overcooked, and the thought of anything fried made his stomach queasy.
“Listen, Book. No matter what happens, the boss can never know we’ve still got this thing.”
“Why didn’t we destroy it, Clint?”
“Just trust me,” Clint said. “It’s like insurance.”
Book wasn’t going to let it go, however. “If she finds out we still got it, she’ll send someone to kill us. She won’t quit until we’re dead.”
Clint tried to smile, but he was feeling dizzy. He leaned against the table for support. “That’s exactly why we’re keeping it. If she tries anything, we’ll send it to the FBI. It must have some damning information, but I’ll be damned if I can find it.”
“You really don’t look so good, Clint,” Book said. “Let’s go to the coffee shop on the corner. Maybe they can make us a sandwich.”
They walked past the park and back to the coffee shop, where Book tried the front door. It was locked. Then they saw a small arm reach out and switch the open sign off. He could see a small woman inside and knocked on the door as she hurried out of view. A voice yelled from inside, “We’re closed.”
“What the . . . ?” Clint said, looking at the deserted business. He looked at his watch. “Who closes at four-thirty” He leaned unsteadily against the faded brick façade.
Book nudged him and pointed down the street to a business in the middle of the block. The sign over the door said, CRAIG’S PHARMACY. A man in a white jacket was standing in front smoking a cigarette.
“What are you thinking, Book?”
“I’m thinking you need some medicine, my friend,” Book said with a broad smile. “You go on to the car. I’ll be right there.”
“I’m going with you,” Clint said, not trusting that look. “I got your back.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
“This is off the record,” Jack said after Penny refilled their coffee and left them alone.
“You know I can’t promise you that, Jack,” Brooke said. “But if it isn’t evidence, I’ll try to keep it to myself. Best I can do.”
That promise wasn’t exactly what he wanted, but it would do for now. “Eric Manson lied to me about knowing Hope Dupree.” Brooke didn’t seem surprised, and he continued, “He was the prosec
utor who had her drug charges dismissed so she could continue to work for narcotics as a CI.”
“So, he lied.” Brooke said. “You never had an attorney lie before?”
“Wait, there’s more.” Jack paused, thinking about how to fill out the story.
“The first murder—even before we knew who was killed—Eric called Marlin Pope. How did he know it was Nina we found at the landfill? Then I find out he’d already been inside her house that morning. He was still at his engagement party when I got the call from dispatch that morning. He claims he was worrying about her not showing up for work. But how did he get involved so fast?”
Brooke remained neutral, and Jack expected her to just get up and leave at any moment.
“Just hear me out,” he said. “Our crime scene didn’t find his fingerprints inside Nina’s house. He said he walked all the way through the house looking for her. How did he do that without touching anything?
And he lied to me about having a key. That’s not to mention, Eric has a reputation for extracurricular activity with his employees.”
Brooke’s eyebrows rose at last. Jack had her attention.
“I’m telling you, Brooke, this has Eric’s stink all over it.”
Then Brooke said something that made Jack’s blood run hot. “Are you sure you’re not making too much of Eric’s involvement? I mean, Eric is engaged to your ex-wife and you obviously disapprove of him.”
“I don’t know, Brooke,” he said. “Are you sure you’re not making light of this because Eric works for your uncle? I mean, having a killer on the payroll couldn’t be good for Trent’s career plans.”
If she’d been cool before, that made her turn positively frosty. In the tense silence that ensued, Jack’s cell phone played a jingle. It was Garcia. He listened to what she had to say and then hung up.
“That was Garcia,” he said, “Hope Dupree is one of the cases listed on the flash drive.”
Brooke took the news in but said nothing.
“Hope Dupree was listed in the court records as a confidential informant. Garcia was able to trace it back to a narcotics case and we just confirmed it. Eric Manson and Nina Parsons were the prosecutors who handled that case. Plus, Nina recently dismissed charges against Hope in another drug case. There’s our connection between Nina and Hope.” And Eric, he thought.
“What about Hope’s pimp?” Brooke asked. “Or Alaina Kusta, or Samantha Steele? How do they fit in?”
Or two killers who ran like soldiers, Jack thought. Brooke was right. As much as he liked Eric for Nina, he still had major pieces that were not fitting into this puzzle.
CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR
Moira’s day had thus far consisted of running errands and filing paperwork for the more senior deputy prosecutors. The work was mind-numbing and exactly what she had hoped to avoid as an attorney. But she needed experience before she considered going into private practice, and that meant starting at the bottom somewhere.
As the other attorneys’ demand for her services lessened, she returned to her own desk and booted up her computer. Unlike the other government offices in the Civic Center, the prosecutor’s database was housed on its own server. Even the police department didn’t have the ability to access it, although she had access to the police database as well as IDACS, or Indiana Data and Communications System, and NCIC, the FBI’s National Crime Information Center, and all of the court systems including civil matters.
With so much information at her fingertips she decided to be nosy. Entering the police records database, she typed in the name Hope Dupree and received four matches. She scrolled through these and found they all matched the same person. The first three files involved juvenile entries: runaway, missing person, minor in possession. The last one reported what Angelina had already told them about.
She checked the list of defendants through the state and federal databases, as well as local and court systems. She was reading charging information for one of the older cases when she heard a knock on her door. Trent Wethington strolled in, came around her desk, and placed his hands on her shoulders.
“I just came to see how you’re settling in. I can see you’re busy,” he said, eyeing the computer screen.
“Just trying to get prepared for tomorrow morning,” she lied. “I’m reading some charging information forms so I can help Abbey prepare them.” She wasn’t doing anything wrong, but if he thought she was snooping around again, he would be angry.
“That’s Billie Mastison,” he said, and she felt his grip tighten on her shoulders. “She was one of my cases many years ago. Why are you looking at this?”
“Oh, is that right? I thought it would give me the correct wording for a charging affidavit. It was really one of yours? Wow! You have a good memory. You must have worked thousands of cases.”
He didn’t look flattered. “That’s the old form. We don’t use that one now, so you need to find the proper one, young lady.”
He leaned across her and pulled up a new charging information form. “That’s the one we use these days. You might want to save it on your desktop so you don’t have to go hunting around in the computer files.”
“Thanks,” she said, trying her best to hide the burn showing on her cheeks.
He left without saying anything else, but she had the feeling that his last remark was a veiled warning.
Trent had barely left when Eric knocked and came into her office. She sighed inwardly, wondered if her day would be like this until she went home. That thought led to wondering if she was being singled out as someone to keep an eye on. She decided to ask.
“Eric, I know I was wrong to take the flash drive home. Am I still in trouble?”
He came around her desk, just as Trent had done, to check her computer screen. Luckily, the new charging information form was still up.
“As a matter of fact, that’s why I came over,” Eric said, and put his hands firmly on her shoulders. She hoped everyone who worked here wasn’t touchy-feely because she hated it.
“Oh?” she asked, and swiveled her chair sideways to face him.
“I know you want to make up for your mistake, and I want to help you do that. You seem keen for extra work, so I’m allowing you some overtime. What are you planning tonight?”
“Eric, I have dinner plans with Jack,” Moira protested, before she remembered what she had just said about taking the flash drive home. “But if will get me back in good graces, I’ll call Jack and cancel.”
Eric’s smile widened. “Yes, it would make a great difference. I’ll tell Trent you volunteered for overtime. That will impress him.” He picked up her legal pad and wrote some notes on it. “These are the cases I want you to pull. Have them on my desk in the morning.”
As Eric headed out, Moira picked up her desk phone to break her dinner plans. Eric turned back and said, “Don’t bother calling Jack. I’m seeing him in a bit and I’ll be sure to tell him.”
She frowned at this intrusion into her private affairs, and he added, “Don’t worry. Jack will understand.”
Moira picked up the legal pad and looked at Eric’s instructions.
Christ, this will take all night. These cases are probably in storage in the basement.
CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE
Brooke was silent during the drive to police headquarters. Once there, she got out and said, “I promised, so I won’t tell anyone what you suspect. But, Jack, you need to be very sure before you accuse the next prosecutor of Vanderburgh County of murder.”
“I’m not accusing Eric,” Jack said, “but you have to admit, he’s the best suspect we have.”
Brooke did not look convinced in the slightest. “You said yourself, there are two killers. So who is Eric working with? Trent? Or maybe Moira?” she added with a sarcastic tinge. “She came back to Evansville just before this started. Maybe she was making an opening for herself by killing Nina. Or maybe I’m one of the killers and secretly married to Eric. I could go on and on.”
“Hey, cut that out,�
� Jack said.
Brooke leaned in the door and said, “I’m just grasping for suspects. Like you.”
“You’ve made your point,” Jack said sullenly.
She slammed the car door and headed to her own car.
Just then a detective approached Jack’s window. “Scotty, in New Harmony, wants you to call him right away. He said he doesn’t want to put anything over the radio. Call his cell phone, he said. Have you got that number?”
Jack nodded that he did. Scotty Champlin kept a thirty-foot outboard at Two Jakes Marina. He had retired from the Mt. Vernon police department years ago and planned to spend his golden years fishing, but the economy started to tank, so he took the job as town marshal in New Harmony. He and Jack were fishing buddies off and on.
Jack honked his horn and Brooke looked up. He motioned for her to come back to the car and dialed Scotty’s cell phone. He listened to what he had to say and asked, “You have video? I’ll be right there.”
He disconnected the call as Brooke approached his door. Before she could make another smart remark, he said, “Get in. There’s been another murder.”
The sleepy village of New Harmony, set along the Wabash River where it divided Indiana from Illinois, had been founded in the mid 1800s, and the population had remained at about eight hundred people, mostly farmers and such. The lack of crime in New Harmony made the town marshal’s position almost honorary, but if Scotty wasn’t exaggerating, all that was about to change.
Jack found a parking place in the post office lot, and they walked up the steps at the rear of the town hall. Scotty Champlin was waiting for them at the back door. He had retired at the mandatory age of sixty-five. He was nearer seventy now, but his lean and muscular physique belied his age.
Scotty ushered them inside a small room filled to overflowing with filing cabinets and boxes of old paperwork. From a small refrigerator set atop one filing cabinet he handed out bottles of ice-cold water.