by Ryan Sayles
The bus of female prisoners weaved through downtown Los Angeles and pulled into the basement of the 60’s era courthouse. This was the day of Jane’s preliminary hearing.
Jane realized it was only temporary, but swapping out her prison orange for the plain skirt and blouse her mother purchased at Ross Dress for Less made her feel human again. There was no access to scissors, so she had to bite the plastic tags off with her teeth. This endeavor cut her lip. She dabbed it with toilet paper, but it was still bleeding, salty to taste.
They escorted her and a few others into an elevator. They walked the long hallway, fluorescent lights illuminating cinder-block walls. They placed her in a holding area and removed the handcuffs. From a water cooler Jane took a drink and had to refill the tiny paper Dixie Cup a few times in order to quench her thirst. She remembered this space from her arraignment. For some reason it seemed different now.
The first person she recognized in the courtroom was her mother, Nancy, seated with her boyfriend Danny. He wore jeans and a Bud Light T-shirt, in contrast with Jane’s mother, dressed for the occasion in a navy blue suit. There was a small crowd in the courtroom, mostly people waiting for other cases, Jane assumed.
She saw Paul, her long-suffering public defender, emerge from the judge’s chambers followed by Assistant District Attorney Noonan, the man she recognized from her arraignment. Paul sat beside her. He nervously rubbed his nose aggressively and wiped his fingers on his slacks before he said, “We’re in luck.”
The bailiff announced the judge, and all in the courtroom stood. A gray-haired woman appeared and sat at the bench in the high-backed leather chair.
“This court has come to order,” the bailiff announced before reading the docket number. The judge cleared her throat and spoke. “In the matter of the State of California versus Jane Innes, the state is unable to proceed at this time.” The judge shot a glare at D.A. Noonan before she peered over her bifocals, “Miss Innes, you are released forthwith.”
Jane heard her mother gasp.
“Bear in mind, however,” the judge continued, “because this dismissal is without prejudice, the district attorney may file charges at a later date, at their discretion. Is that understood?”
“Yes,” Jane said.
“You are ordered to report your whereabouts on a weekly basis with the Sheriff’s office. Is that understood?”
“Yes, Your Honor.”
The woman sized Jane up for a moment before the gavel came down. Paul said, “Let’s speak in the hallway.”
Jane turned to her mother. They embraced over the railing. The bailiff read the next docket number. As they left the courtroom another case had already begun.
In the hallway Paul pulled Jane aside. “Your case was dropped because evidence the prosecution was counting on fell apart,” he said. “If they can bring more, they’ll charge you. It’s their strategy to buy time.”
“What evidence?”
“The timeline once hotel’s video surveillance was reviewed. It shows you were nowhere near Wolff’s room before he was last seen.”
“Then who was?”
“They haven’t determined.”
“Veronica,” she said.
“Realize they’ll have you followed.”
“Why?”
“To lead them to the missing money.”
“I don’t have it.”
“They don’t know that.”
“Misdirection,” Jane said.
“Miss who?”
“No, misdirection, like a magic trick. I was Veronica’s decoy. To throw everyone off her scent.”
He rubbed his nose again, said, “Do yourself a favor, stay out of trouble.”
“I’ll try my best.”
Chapter 4
To celebrate Jane’s release Danny took everyone to lunch. He insisted on Tam O’Shanter, a classic L.A. meat-and-potato eatery styled after a Scottish pub. With its drooping Tudor style architecture and stained-glass windows, Jane thought the place could be something at Disneyland—like Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride—but with a well-stocked bar.
They were led to their table by a young waitress in a short plaid skirt. For drink orders Danny and Nancy chose beer. Jane opted for wine. She really could use a drink—and keep ’em coming.
The lunch arrived and her prime rib was magnificent. Combined with the hearty Napa cabernet, Jane was in pure heaven. “Oh,” she exclaimed, “this is good.”
“Better than that jailhouse slop?” Danny asked.
“Absolutely.”
While playing her role as the carefree heiress, Cooper had not allowed Jane to eat red meat. He decided the character she played, Kimberly, would only indulge in seafood selections, salads, or gluten-free pasta.
She tried to forget what her lawyer Paul had said, that cops may be following her, but paranoia won out. She couldn’t help but watch the door and wonder if someone in the restaurant was spying them.
“I’ve been in the joint a few times myself,” Danny admitted.
“When?” Nancy asked with an elbow to his ribs.
“For stupid things when I was young.”
“Like what?”
“You don’t want to know.”
Her mother had been with Danny for almost a year now. It seemed as if she’d found her perfect soul-mate. Jane liked Danny’s laid back manner. He was authentic, and didn’t care what anyone thought of him.
Her mother turned to Jane and said, “Danny and I had an idea. We thought you could be a big help to us. We need a secretary, a Girl Friday, but it’s more than that. When we’re on the road we need someone who can hold down the fort back home. Send us stuff, set up hotels and make travel arrangements, that sort of thing. You’ll be our coordinator and live with us in Sarasota. We’re only on the road three or four months a year, so the rest of the time we’ll all be together.”
“Florida?”
“Oh, Jane, it’s so beautiful there. You’re going to love it.”
This proposition did not thrill her. It was moving back home, and that meant failure. Besides, this would stall her acting pursuits. As Jane chewed on her prime rib she entertained visions of pink flamingos, alligators, and orange groves—all the iconic images of the Sunshine State. The more she thought about it, the more she realized there was very little keeping her in Los Angeles. No job, no boyfriend. Nothing.
“And there’s a clown college there,” Nancy said.
“What?”
“A clown college. Maybe you can study there.”
Danny offered an explanation. “It’s associated with Barnum and Bailey. The circus spent their winters in Sarasota, back in the day. Their headquarters are still based there.”
Jane was horrified. Film, stage, and television were her true passion. Working as a clown was just a way to make a few bucks. She sipped her wine and tried to fathom what clowns could possibly study. Balloon animals? Bullshit.
Her mother added, “A lot of circus folks retire in the area. There’s a darling midget couple in the neighborhood. Very nice people. And they have two normal-sized children. All grown up now.”
“We’re supposed to call them little people,” Danny reminded her.
“Why?”
“Because that’s what they prefer to be called these days.” Danny waved to the waiter for another round, then in a lowered voice, “It’s politically correct, little people, not midgets.”
Nancy laughed to herself and leaned into Jane. “Go figure. I guess I’m not PC.”
“Hell no,” he said, teasing her.
Having eaten the meal combined with two glasses of wine Jane was suddenly very tired. The plan was to get her a room at the Best Western where Danny and Nancy were staying. The three of them climbed into Danny’s pickup and drove to the motel.
“We’ve already missed qualifying rounds in Denver.” her mother said. “So we’ll drive back home on Tuesday because Danny has some business to attend on Monday.”
“I’ve got to meet some top fuel people, out
in Lancaster,” he explained.
“How long will it take to drive back?” Jane asked.
“About two days if we drive it straight through,” Danny said.
Jane turned back and considered the large bed of his pickup. With the exception of her futon, she was certain she could fit most of her things back there.
They got Jane the adjoining room at the motel and Danny drove Jane to see Yuri, the mechanic who had her Nissan in his shop. She was surprised to learn her car had been sold.
“I’m sorry to say,” the soft-bellied Ukrainian said, “I had to put a mechanic’s lien on your car since I couldn’t find you. Your phone is disconnected, and I mailed the notice but it came back.”
Jane was furious. “You sold my car!?”
“Pick-A-Part. Yes, Pick-A-Part junkyard, in the Valley. They were kind enough to pick it up, but I lost money on the deal,” Yuri said then ducked into his garage.
“I’ll sue you!”
Danny tried to calm Jane down, explaining that Yuri had every right to sell her car.
“But that was my car!”
“What year was it?”
“I don’t know.”
“Ninety-six Nissan Sentra, with over two hundred thousand miles,” unseen Yuri informed from the shade of his garage.
Danny took Jane’s arm, “The thing couldn’t have been worth more than eight hundred bucks.”
“It’s got sentimental value.”
“How much did you owe him?”
“I don’t know. Maybe seven hundred. I forget.”
“Then it sounds like it’s time for a new car,” he said. “I’ve got a Chevy back home. You can borrow it until you’re back on your feet.”
Jane had owned the Nissan since high school and was sad she’d never see it again. Getting back in the truck, Jane saw a Dodge Charger with darkened windows across the street. She got the feeling whoever inside was watching her. They pulled away, and after a few blocks, she could see the car was following, her suspicions confirmed.
“Someone’s following us,” she said.
“Where?”
“Behind us. That black car.”
Danny studied the rear-view mirror.
“My lawyer said the cops may be watching me,” she said. “They think I can lead them to Veronica.”
“Cops? I better clean those beer cans out of my truck bed, don’t ya think?”
Jane could see there were no cans in his truck bed and wondered why he was teasing her at a moment like this. The car followed for a few blocks but then veered off. She wondered if it was the cops, a coincidence, or someone working for Veronica?
Back to TOC
Here’s a sample from Robert J. Randisi’s Souls of the Dead.
Prologue
Monday night . . .
Ex-Sheriff Ken Burke entered Pirates alley from the Jackson Square end. All the businesses and activities that attracted tourists to the Square had closed by 8 p.m. Now, at 11 p.m., it was deserted, except for some homeless people looking to sleep on benches, or in doorways.
Burke walked along the side of the St. Louis Cathedral. His meet was set for behind the building, across from the Faulkner House.
The ex-Orleans Parish Sheriff moved as carefully and quietly as he could. In his belt he had his old .45. The gun had retired with him, never having given way to the S&W and Beretta double-action, semi-automatic pistols that were also eventually eclipsed by the appearance of the Glock. These were the guns law enforcement officials began to carry during what Burke referred to as the “new age” of law enforcement. He was still “old age” in his thinking, though he recognized the irony and didn’t like the first impression the phrase presented.
But as alert as he was, the old reflexes were not what they used to be. He heard a sound behind him. Before he could turn toward it something struck him on the back of the head and he went down.
Goddamn, but getting old was a bitch!
ONE
When Sangster’s phone rang it came as a surprise.
Not only because it was the middle of the night, but because Sangster’s phone never rang. Not ever, except for an occasional wrong number. He only kept the land line because he didn’t own a cell phone. When he had need of one, he always bought the disposable kind.
He groped in the dark for the receiver, wanting nothing more than for the ringing to stop.
“Yes, what?” he said.
“Mr. Stark?”
Richard Stark was a name he used when he didn’t want to use Sangster.
“Who’s calling?”
“Sir, this is the Urgent Care center in University Hospital? Are you Mr. Richard Stark?”
“That’s right.”
“You’ve been listed as the person to be notified—”
“What?” he asked, sitting up. “Listed by who? What are you talking about?”
“Um, a man named Kenneth Burke? He’s been injured and gave your name and number—”
“Is he all right?” Sangster asked. “Is he alive?”
“He’s alive, sir,” the woman said, “but you’ll need to come down—”
“I’ll be there,” Sangster said. “I’m—it’ll take me a while—I’m coming from Algiers, but I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
“All right, sir.”
“Take care of him,” Sangster said, “take good care of him. I’ll pay, understand? Money’s no object.”
“We’re taking care of him, sir,” she said. “That’s our job.”
“Okay, okay.” He almost hung up, then put the phone back to his ear. “Who are you? I mean, what’s your name?”
“I’m Nurse Claire O’Malley, sir,” she said. “I’ll be on duty when you get here.”
“Okay,” he said, “I’ll be there.”
“Yes, all right, si—”
He hung up, got out of bed and grabbed some clothes . . .
Outside of Sangster’s house the man called Quinlan was watching from across the street, trying to get the lay of the land. He had only arrived in New Orleans that afternoon, got himself situated in a small B&B before heading out to find Algiers Point. He got directions from the woman who ran the B&B, an attractive middle-aged brunette who was obviously flirting. Maybe, if he was there long enough, he could look into that.
Once he got directions to Algiers he grabbed a cab to the ferry and took the ride across. He used most of the rest of the day to check the area out, look for cops and, finally, locate Sangster’s house.
He was there long enough for the last ferry to have left, so he decided to spend the night outside of Sangster’s house. He wasn’t ready to go in. He was good at his job, and that meant learning all he could about his target, and the target’s environment.
That’s why he was there when the front door opened and Sangster came rushing out. The man got into an old Ford and drove off fast. The ferry still wasn’t running, but Quinlan had been told there was a bridge you could take back and forth. He didn’t have a car, though, so there was no way to follow Sangster. But that was okay. He needed to learn the set-up of the house, anyway. And he could do that while Sangster was gone.
Upon arrival at University Hospital on Perdido Street, Sangster parked the car he’d borrowed from in front of Burke’s house and sought out and found Nurse O’Malley, a pretty woman in her thirties with freckles and a mass of red curls that she’d tried to pin up under her nurse’s cap.
“Oh, yes, Mr. Stark,” she said. “Uh, your friend is still being treated. I’ll take you to talk to the doctor.”
“Thank you.”
“The police are here, as well.”
“The police?” Sangster asked. “Why?”
“Well, apparently your friend had been attacked,” she said, “and he had some sort of badge on him?”
“He’s a retired Sheriff,” Sangster said.
“I see.” She led Sangster deeper into the emergency room. Around him were people with all different sorts of injuries, a couple of which seemed to be pretty
bloody.
“You’re busy,” he observed.
“Yes, sir,” she said. “Since Katrina caused Charity Hospital to close down, we pick up a lot of extra cases. We pretty much split them with Tulane Hospital.”
The ex-hitman followed the nurse, hoping the police officers wouldn’t be too interested in who he was and he’d be able to get away with saying he was “a friend.”
As it turned out, he needn’t have worried. He saw two men talking to a tall, very skinny white-coated doctor, recognized them, immediately, and knew they would recognize him. The doctor was wearing a name tag that read, DR. JUDD, M.D.
“Doctor?” she said. “This is Mr. Burke’s emergency contact.”
The doctor and both detectives turned to face Sangster.
“Well, look who it is,” Detective Williams said. “Stark, right?”
“Mr. Stark,” Detective Aaron Telemaco said. “I should have realized—”
“How is Burke?” Sangster demanded.
The doctor looked at Telemaco for guidance, and the older detective nodded and said, “You can go ahead and answer, Doc.”
“Mr. Burke was attacked on the street,” the doctor said. His watery eyes studied Sangster from behind rimless wire-frame glasses. “He has a nasty lump on the back of his head, but no other obvious injuries.”
“What do you mean, ‘obvious injuries’?” Sangster asked.
“Well, just that,” the doctor said. “He’s in and out of consciousness.”
“Is that unusual with a head injury?” Sangster asked.
“Well, no . . .”
“But?”
“But this seems odd,” the doctor said. “I was just telling the detectives, we’ve taken x-rays and a cat scan, and we can’t see any reason for his condition.”
“He was hit on the head,” Sangster said.
“As I said,” the doctor went on, “he has a lump, but no concussion. He should be back on his feet by now.”
“Well . . .” Sangster said. “. . . he is an older man.”