The Deepest Wound

by Rick Reed

  Jack could take offense, but in this case, Eric was right. The security detail that was watching Katie was the best. And Jack had inside knowledge that she would be keeping clear of Eric. He had asked the officers to call him if Eric came near her.

  “How is Katie holding up?” Jack asked.

  “To be honest, she’s ready for this to be over.”

  “I promise you, Eric, it will be over soon.”

  Eric shoved his hands in his pockets, but not before Jack saw the fingers curl into fists. He was about to reply when Trent opened the door and stepped into the hallway.

  “Eric, can you take over the meeting? I need to talk to Jack alone for a minute.”

  Eric was relieved. “Sure thing, Trent. He’s all yours.”

  “My office?” Trent asked.

  “I’ll only be a minute, Moira,” Jack promised. “Why don’t you wait in your office? I won’t leave without you.”

  “I’m starving,” Moira said, and tugged on Jack’s arm. “Don’t be too long.”

  Trent led the way into his office and took a seat behind his desk. “Shut the door so we can talk,” he said.

  Jack complied, though he remained standing.

  Trent announced, “I wanted to clear something up, and I hope you’ll keep what I tell you between us.”

  Jack nodded, and Trent put his hands on top of his desk in an open gesture. “I know all about the argument between Nina and Bob Rothschild a few days before her death.”

  Jack had been expecting this, but not an admission to the argument. He thought someone would conveniently show up as a witness that the argument never happened or that it was nothing important. He said nothing, waiting to see where Trent was going with this.

  “None of us wanted to disparage Nina’s reputation. She was a fine attorney. One of the best. But, to put it bluntly, she could be a real bitch.”

  Jack was taken aback. He didn’t know Trent even knew the word bitch, much less utter it. “What was the argument about?”

  Trent was in his deal-cutting element. “This is where I need your discretion. It would serve no purpose for this to come out. It would only make people think poorly of Nina.”

  Jack wanted to be the judge of that, so he merely nodded.

  “She was leaking information to my competitor.”

  He said this as if she had been solely responsible for the genocide of the Jews.

  Jack’s bullshit alarm was going off. “How?” he asked simply.

  Trent seemed to have anticipated this question and answered much too quickly.

  “I’m not sure exactly how she did it, but it was happening frequently and Bob set up a sting and caught her. That’s why he confronted her. It was a poor judgment call on his part to confront her outside in public, but it was unavoidable.”

  “And you know all of this how?” Jack’s bullshit detector needle was now buried in the red. If he said Bob was his only source, Jack would be tempted to yank Bob out of the meeting down the hall and grill him.

  “I spoke directly to Nina,” Trent said, getting Jack’s full attention.

  “Go on,” Jack said.

  Trent recounted Bob’s involvement and then his own. He said that Nina was sharing campaign manager duties with Bob, and things went fine for a month. Then private tidbits—things that he’d only discussed with Nina and Bob—began being released to the press by Jon Parkhurst, his competitor. He trusted Bob implicitly, but Nina was a question mark. Trent had put her on the campaign only because she had pestered him incessantly.

  “She was very helpful, at first,” Trent said, “but then I shared some information with her and Bob in a closed-door meeting. The next thing we knew Parkhurst planned to release the information. It was a lie, and he finally caught it and stopped its release to the press.”

  Trent sat back in the chair and smirked. “He even had the gall to call me and ask what I thought I was up to. Can you imagine?”

  Jack made a show of shaking his head in agreement, but was wondering if Trent knew how bad all this looked for him. How convenient for you, Trent. Nina was out to destroy you and she is suddenly killed and dismembered.

  “I only have one question, Trent. What do you know of the exchange between Bob and Nina? Can you tell me what was said?”

  Trent looked incredulous, so Jack rephrased that. “Not the exact words. But did Bob or Nina tell you what was said, in general?”

  Trent locked eyes with Jack, and his face displayed an earnest look. “Bob said he told her he knew she was the leak. She denied it and then said she was going to the media with her lies to ruin my chances at becoming governor. Bob thought she had been promised a job with the governor’s office if Parkhurst won the election.”

  “What about Nina?”

  Trent again showed his discomfort, presumably of speaking ill of the dead. “She was such a disappointment to me. She said Bob had threatened to ruin her career. She said he told her, ‘Your life is over. You’re dead.’ But I assure you, Jack, he was just angry over her betrayal. Those two guys, Hallard and Book, are your guys. Let it end there. You’re a great detective, Jack. And I apologize for my calling the state police, but I was truly trying to help. I feel like a foolish old man now.”

  Jack had one more question. “What lies was Nina going to tell?”

  Trent seemed to catch his breath but recovered like a pro. “You know I can’t tell you that, Jack. Trust me, they didn’t have any substance, or anything to do with her murder. She was just in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

  That bland sentiment set Jack to thinking. Nina wasn’t in the wrong place at the wrong time. She was in her house. Alaina Kusta was shopping. Hope Dupree was in Illinois. Sammi Steele was trolling an alley. All these murders seemingly unrelated. The only ones who knew why they died were the victims. He knew he couldn’t let all the burden of guilt rest with Hallard and Book. What was it that Garcia said? “They are invisible.” They had no motive. They came from nowhere. This case smelled of mercenaries. He wondered if he was focusing on this case in the wrong fashion. Maybe the murders had nothing to do with each other. Maybe only one of the murders was the crux.

  When Jack’s meeting with Trent ended, he found a seat in Moira’s office, which wasn’t easy, since every flat surface, including some of the floor space, was still covered with file folders. Jack noticed a tall stack of files in the center of her desk. The dates on the folders were over twenty years old. He intuited that these were the cases that Moira had retrieved from the basement last night. They didn’t look like anything to risk a life for. If Eric was so keen on getting them, why were they still stacked on Moira’s desk?

  “I don’t trust him, Jack!” Moira whispered, and shut the door. “I’ve combed through this stuff all day, and it is all unrelated. They have nothing in common to serve as research value. But I think I found something interesting.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-SEVEN

  In Afghanistan, he and Book had holed up in a burned-out building for two days. The bullet-riddled bodies of seven U. S. soldiers were spread around them like puppets with their strings cut. Nine men had gone on this operation. He and Book were the only two who stayed alive.

  He hoped he was up to the task tonight. His whole body hurt like hell. He couldn’t even lean over to tie his bootlaces. But he was a soldier. Book needed him. He wouldn’t complain.

  Clint slid on a Kevlar vest and cinched the Velcro straps tight at the waist and chest. The pressure on his ribs hurt and felt good at the same time. He had dressed in black BDU pants, with a T-shirt under the vest. He pulled a loose-fitting Under Armor shirt over it all and the layering of shirts hid the vest well.

  Book pulled a Pelican hard-sided case from under the bed, dropped it on the mattress, and flicked the locks open. Nestled inside was a MP5SFA3 semiautomatic carbine made by German firearm manufacturer Heckler & Koch. The assault rifle was equipped with a hundred-round drum-type magazine, an under-barrel flashlight, holographic sights, and was capable of expending e
ight hundred rounds per minute. On full auto it was accurate to fifty yards.

  “Same as the Navy SEALs carry,” Book said, admiring the weapon. “Full auto, extra drums of ammo. We got us some kick-ass toys, bro.”

  “Some broad starts shooting this time, I’m turning her into Swiss cheese,” Clint said. The hole in his leg had stopped bleeding, but he still felt hot, feverish, like he had the flu.

  Book pulled another smaller case from under the bed. “You get the UMP, buddy,” he said, lifting the shorter submachine gun from the case. “Twenty-five round clip.” He slammed a loaded clip home. “Selector switch for full auto or single fire. Loaded with forty-five-caliber Hydra-Shok ammo.”

  Clint’s weapon weighed half of what Book’s did, but both weapons were capable of firing several hundred subsonic rounds a minute.

  “You know, I can make this last run alone,” Book said.

  Clint seated a round in the breach of his submachine gun, and said, “Guns don’t kill people. Loaded guns kill people,” and they both laughed. They were born for this.

  Book zipped open a nylon messenger bag, put extra ammo for both weapons inside, and slung it crossways around his neck. He slid a pair of dark sunglasses on and gave Clint a deadly look, saying, “I’ll be back.”

  “Arnold wasn’t no black dude, Book,” Clint pointed out.

  “He should have been, man. It would have been more realistic. Besides, I’m better looking, better built, and indestructible.”

  They carried their gear and weapons to the truck. Books stood his rifle against the bench seat between him and Clint with the barrel pointed to the ceiling. Clint’s lay across his lap.

  Book leaned down, twisted some wires together under the dash, and the engine started. He looked across at Clint. “We’re gonna have some fun tonight.”

  Clint couldn’t agree more. It was definitely time for some payback.

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-EIGHT

  Moira’s stomach grumbled, but first she had to show Jack what she found.

  “Pull a chair around here,” she said. “I did some digging in NCIC—”

  “Wait a minute,” Jack interrupted. “You got into the FBI database?” The FBI jealously guarded NCIC, or National Crime Information Center. Anyone logging into that computer system had to take a class, pass a test, be certified that they worked for the justice system, and then the computer they used had to be in a secure location and approved by NCIC.

  “Moira, you’ve been here a week. How on earth did you get permission to log into a federal database?”

  “I tried to log in with my username and password, but it rejected me. So I found Nina’s username and password in her desk and used her login.”

  Jack couldn’t believe what he was hearing. If NCIC found out Moira had used a dead woman’s information to gain access, they would shit a brick. Maybe even take the system privileges from the entire prosecutor’s office. Or file charges of computer tampering. He had just gotten Garcia out of trouble for the same thing, and now Moira might be in deep shit.

  “You taught me that it’s better to ask forgiveness than permission. Isn’t that right?”

  Jack kept his voice level. “Get approved. And don’t use it again until you do.”

  She promised, but he knew she didn’t mean it.

  “Can I finish now?” she asked, and Jack nodded.

  “NCIC didn’t have a lot to connect these cases. Or IDACS.”

  Jack raised his eyebrows. IDACS was another system she should not be able to access. But what the hell. He let her go on.

  “So I used her login to get into her personal drive on the office computer,” she said. “And guess what I found?” She waited for Jack to ask, but he didn’t. “I found this,” she said, and handed Jack a stack of paper. She pulled the last page from the stack and said, “She kept a work diary of sorts on her hard drive. Read this one first.”

  Jack read the journal entry, and then read it again.

  “Is this what I think it is?” he asked.

  Jack had lied to Eric about taking Moira to a fancy restaurant. Fake left, run right. He and Moira were headed for Two Jakes.

  Nina had kept a journal on her computer, going back to the day she started work with the prosecutor’s office in Evansville. The entries were dated, and while some went on for pages, some were only two or three sentences. Moira had printed off twenty pages of the last entries and Jack read all of it before they left. Although she didn’t name anyone, the entries matched what Nina’s neighbor told him about the man who had visited Nina late at night and had then stopped coming around.

  Nina Parsons was seeing someone from the prosecutor’s office. It had started four months ago, ended a month ago, and the last entry in the journal was bone-chilling.

  I thought Hope was just another junky out to smear someone she blamed for her bad life choices. But the more she talked, the more things she told me, about him, about her . . . I knew she was telling the truth.

  I had suspected as much, but after talking to Hope I knew how corrupt and degenerate he was. Hope wasn’t the only one he had used. There were many others known only by street names or first names. Like her, they had all been in trouble with the law. They had all been offered a way out of their conviction of a felony. They had all been given confidential informant status in exchange for sexual favors. He’s a pig. And a liar of the worst sort.

  Going through the files, I found eleven of the women Hope named, and there were twice that many when I searched the archives. Hope said she told him she was pregnant in an attempt to get money, but she wasn’t. He must have believed her lie because he offered to pay for the abortion and then laughed when she said she wanted to keep it. Her behavior doesn’t excuse his.

  The sight of him sickens me now. Each time I see him at work I’m reminded of what he did to them. Did to me. And to think, I fell for his charm, listened to and believed his lies—let him have me. In a way, I guess, I’ll be his last.

  The journal ended. Nina didn’t explain what she had meant by “I’ll be his last.” None of the entries named anyone, but the remark

  “They had all been in trouble with the law” alluded to the list of names on the flash drive. The perpetrator was someone Nina had daily contact with. Another deputy prosecutor? Or maybe a defense attorney, or even a judge. But the journal entry pointed to the reason for Nina’s death. She knew too much. She had made a lot of connections. And she was going to do something to right what she saw as a wrong. She was killed to shut her up, and Hope Dupree was killed because she had told Nina. But who would know that?

  “Who do you think Nina was talking about?” Moira asked.

  Jack was watching the windswept stalks of corn passing by the window, swaying to music that only nature could hear. He was thinking that the computer entry could be challenged in court even if Nina had named her late-night suitor. Maybe the journal would continue with “Tonight I’ll see Eric,” or maybe it would say, “Tonight I’ll wash my hair and read a book.” It didn’t matter now.

  He decided not to answer her question. He had promised Katie that he would protect Moira.

  “Honestly, I don’t know,” he said, and pulled back on the river road.

  Eric had lied about knowing Hope Dupree. He lied about how he entered Nina Parsons’ house, and how he knew the key was in a magnetic box hidden on top of her porch light. He gave up the key because he thought the old neighbor woman had seen him. Eric drove a dark sedan, like the one the neighbor saw visiting Nina’s for several months, and then the visits ended about a month ago. According to Moira, that was about when Eric had proposed to Katie. His fingerprints were found on the outside and inside of the front doorknob at Nina’s, but those were conveniently explained away by his being called by Trent, who was called by Cindy McCoy, and all this verified by the three of them. Jack had nothing on Eric except a gut feeling that he was guilty of something.

  Maybe Eric was trying to protect his reputation by all the lies he had told. He was going to
be Trent’s successor and it wouldn’t look good if he was tied to a murder victim. But it was Eric’s reputation that had fueled Jack’s suspicion in the first place. In any case, Eric was a womanizer, and he definitely wasn’t husband material for Katie. But was he a stone-cold killer, or maybe had hired these guys?

  And then there was Eric’s alibi. During the time that Alaina Kusta was killed, Eric was schmoozing some big money people in a campaign meeting at the Convention Center. Jack had checked with a friend who also attended. And he definitely wasn’t one of the men on the video from New Harmony or the one from the Civic Center. But he could be pulling their strings.

  And then there’s Trent’s running for governor and Eric moving into the post vacated by Trent. If some impropriety, or, given Eric’s past affairs with ladies in his last job, if there were some sexual connotation made with all the cases on Nina’s flash drive, it would sink any election chance either man had.

  Alaina Kusta, Dick Longest, or Samantha Steele weren’t connected in any way to the list of cases on the flash drive. Hope Dupree’s pimp, Dick Longest, might have been collateral damage, but the dancer, Samantha Steele, or the civil attorney, Alaina Kusta . . . what could they have done to put them in the killers’ sights? Were they collateral damage as well?

  Eric had lied to Moira the night she was targeted in the Civic Center. He was the one who gave her the assignment in the basement that kept her working late in the evening. And he had lied to her about telling Jack that she wouldn’t be able to meet for dinner. Instead, Eric had taken Katie out to eat. If Moira had been killed, who would know that he lied?

  In any case, Eric couldn’t afford to have Moira snooping around anymore. If Eric was behind the killings, and he found out Moira had picked up where Nina left off, then he would have no choice but to put Moira on their “still-to-do list.”

  “Come on, Jack,” Moira protested. “What are you thinking?”