Blood Ties (John Jordan Mysteries Book 16)

by Michael Lister

  The day is gray and overcast, the morning sun hidden by clouds. The ground is still wet and another storm is gathering in the distance.

  “Can’t imagine Trace and Ashley are gonna be together much longer,” he says. “Be surprised if she hasn’t moved out by the end of the week.”

  “Does it seem mutual?” I ask. “Or more one than the other?”

  “Hard to tell . . . Times I think it’s more him wanting her gone. Others seems like what she wants—more for Brett than herself maybe. Not sure.”

  “Figured after the way Trace snatched Brett around at the funeral . . .”

  “Yeah, it’s that . . . but not just that. From what I gather, they weren’t really havin’ problems before Mariah’s murder.”

  Makes me wonder if one suspects the other—or maybe more than suspects. Knows.

  “And it’s not just losing Mariah,” he says. “Which is the main thing. But . . . looks like Trace is losing everything. Tours and sponsorships and albums and TV appearances are being canceled. Says nobody returning his calls. Think he’s feelin’ pretty damn isolated. And the media’s still houndin’ hell out of him. Always at the house. Everywhere he goes. And the shit they sayin’ about him and her and even Mariah is . . . It’s fucked up. All that pressure makin’ things ’round here ready to explode or implode or somethin’.”

  “Have there been any other threats or assaults or anything?”

  “No.”

  “Probably won’t be after they see your YouTube video.”

  “Not ’less they suicidal,” he says with a laugh.

  “Randa was impressed by it,” I say.

  “She call back, tell her to come see me, I’ll give her a private demonstration.”

  “Already told her you said anytime.”

  “Hope like hell she takes me up on the offer,” he says.

  “Me too.”

  “Looks like they comin’ downstairs,” he says. “Better go so I can guard them while they eat their cornflakes.”

  “I appreciate the information,” I say.

  “I ain’t sayin’ one or both of ’em did it ’cause I don’t have a clue who did,” he says, “but I am sayin’ ’round ’bout now be a good time for those follow-up interviews.”

  With about ten minutes left of my drive, I call Frank Morgan.

  “I could kiss you, son,” he says.

  “Why’s that?”

  “Getting me this gig,” he says, “Haven’t felt this useful in a while. Quite a while. And the cause . . . the cause is so damn righteous. I mean . . . these poor women. The work they do here is . . . extraordinary. Feels so good to help them out. And I’m not just doing security. Deidra says it’s good for the women to be around a decent and gentle man. I’m actually helpin’ with their recovery and reprograming.”

  “That’s great,” I say. “So good. You’re the perfect man for the job.”

  “Spent so much of my career chasing down the lowlifes after they had killed or raped or assaulted someone. So different to help prevent them from doing that instead of tryin’ to catch them afterwards.”

  “Speaking of chasin’ down bad guys,” I say, “anything happening on the shooter?”

  “Found the vehicle,” he says. “It was abandoned and torched. Had been stolen. Even still . . . I hear there’re some good leads. Should know something soon.”

  “Good.”

  “Not sayin’ it’s him, but . . . guess who’s nowhere to be found?”

  “Little Swag?”

  “How can you say that without laughing?” he says.

  “It’s not easy.”

  45

  I arrive at Roger Garrett’s Stars Haven mansion to discover his attorney is with him.

  “My client is not responsible nor can be held liable for what another person does in one of his rental properties,” Hugh Browning III says.

  “Nobody’s saying he is or can be,” I say.

  “Then why ask to see him?” he asks.

  Justin Harris acts nervous and looks as if he’s uncomfortable with conflict.

  “Just wanted to ask him about the house and where he was on the night of the Fourth.”

  We’re standing in the living room on the main floor. Around us the house is in disarray, as if a crime scene unit has tromped though it. Fingerprint dust around doors, on walls, and other hard surfaces. Evidence markers strewn about. Crime scene tape across the exterior doors, its ragged ends flapping in the Gulf breeze.

  “Why? Surely, you’re not suggesting he’s even a suspect. We already submitted fingerprints and handwriting samples . . . this is just too—”

  “You know how this works,” I say. “We have to eliminate everyone we can so we can narrow our focus onto—”

  “I know that’s what y’all always say,” he says. “But . . . in my experience I find that y’all spread a lot of suspicion about but rarely publicly clear anyone.”

  “An arrest is the best way to clear everyone else,” I say. “That’s what we’re working toward. It’s why I’m here. Why I’m tryin’ to eliminate any and every one I can.”

  “I’ll talk to him, Hugh,” Roger Garrett says. “Quit bein’ such a little bitch about it.” He looks at me. “What is it you want to know?”

  “Before today, when’s the last time you were in the house?”

  He looks up and appears to think about it. “Not sure. Been a while, though. Only came today to say goodbye to the place.”

  “You’re selling it?”

  He nods. “Got some true crime nut makin’ me an offer I can’t refuse. But he insists that nobody rents it or uses it and that we don’t clean anything. Wants all the fingerprint dust left where it is, the carpet cut up, the evidence tape and markers.”

  “Who is it?”

  He shakes his head. “He insists on anonymity for the deal to go through, so . . . It’ll be public record as soon as the deed is recorded.”

  I wonder if it’s the killer trying to destroy evidence. Of our actual suspects, only Trace could afford it.

  “When is closing?” I ask.

  “I’m sorry,” he says, “but I don’t want to say exactly. I’m not tryin’ to be difficult or uncooperative, but I don’t want y’all setting up some sort of sting at the title agency or my real estate attorney’s office.”

  “Will you at least tell me if it’s soon?” I say. “Is he in a hurry?”

  “He’s already told you, detective,” Browning says. “He doesn’t want to—”

  “It’s soon,” Garrett says. “And he does seem in a mighty big hurry, which is just fine with me. I used to love this place, but no more. It’s . . . forever spoiled for me.”

  “Did you remember when the last time you’d been in was?”

  “Have to be back in the spring sometime, I’d say. Can’t be more specific than that.”

  “Do you have the maid clean your safe room?” I ask.

  Garrett whips his head around and stares at Justin, who has been so quiet I’d almost forgotten he was there.

  “You’re worse than a damn woman, Justin,” he says. “Can’t keep a secret for shit.”

  “Sorry, Mr. Garrett. I thought they already knew about it. But I mean . . . it’s a . . . murder investigation.”

  “Good thing I’ve got nothin’ to hide,” he says. “Not even my goddamn top secret hidden room.”

  He looks back at me.

  “No,” he says. “I do not. I would’ve said none of them even knew about its existence, but Mr. Can’t Keep A Secret over here probably told them too.”

  “Who cleans it?” I ask. “How often?”

  “To my knowledge no one,” he says. “I’m the only one who uses it—or so I thought.” He turns back toward Justin. “You been going in my room? Take your girlfriend or wife or whatever? Throw parties down there.”

  “No, Sir. Never. Absolutely not. No, sir.”

  “Bad enough you rented my big blue masterpiece to some low rent jigaboo child killers,” he says. “Now you te
ll everyone about my room.”

  He looks back at me. “It’s supposed to be a secret. That’s the point. Not really worth havin’ otherwise. It probably needs cleanin’ ’cause I’ve never cleaned it, but I’m not much of a maid. What’s with all the questions about the last time I’ve been in the house or safe room and if I clean it?”

  “Because I’m wondering why your prints are inside the victim’s bedroom and why they’re not in your safe room.”

  “Okay,” Browning says. “That’s it. This little discussion is over. Not another word, Roger. You have any other questions for my client, submit them to me in writing, understand?”

  Garrett starts to say something, but Browning stops him.

  “I’m serious as fuck, Roger,” he says. “Not another goddamn word.”

  “That went well,” Justin says.

  Garrett and Browning are gone. Justin and I are alone in the huge house.

  “You probably just cost me my business,” he adds.

  “How?”

  “I’m about to go under as it is,” he says. “Without him as a client, I’m done. Did you have to mention the hidden room?”

  I nod. “But I didn’t know I wasn’t supposed to,” I say. “I’m sorry. Didn’t intentionally try to jam you up.”

  He frowns and nods.

  “Business really that bad?” I ask. “Thought things were booming out here.”

  “My situation is dire, but . . . I’m sure not everybody’s is.”

  “Sorry to hear that.”

  “Speaking of . . . I need to get back to the office. Try to figure out a way to win Mr. Garrett back.”

  “You’re not handling the sale of this house?”

  He shakes his head. “Didn’t even know about it until he just mentioned it. God, if I was . . .”

  “What would it take you to get flush?” I ask.

  “Not much. Not compared to what my business is worth—or what these homes out here sell for. A twelfth of what this house alone is worth would have me back in the black.”

  “What’s he getting for it?” I ask.

  He shrugs. “Not sure. Sounds like his buyer is paying a premium, but I’d say the market value is about three mil. I really do need to go.”

  “Okay,” I say, “I’ll make this quick. When you were together, was Ashley into bondage? Submission? Being tied up?”

  After giving me a look that conveys both confusion and disgust, he shakes his head. “No. To be honest . . . Well, anyway. No, she wasn’t.”

  “To be honest what?” I ask.

  “Nothing. I don’t know why I even—You just proved you can’t keep a secret.”

  “I didn’t know it was a secret.”

  “It’s a secret room for fuck sake.”

  “You know what I mean. What were you going to say?”

  “Just that . . . Ashley was kind of pedestrian in bed. Kind of boring. And I beg of you not to ever tell her I said anything like that. I wouldn’t hurt her feelings for anything.”

  “I won’t. You have my word.”

  “Can I go now?”

  “How well is a house like this cleaned before a new guest arrives?”

  “Immaculately. Extremely. Spotlessly. You don’t pay what you do for a place like this and it not be pristine in every way. Why?”

  “Just trying to account for the evidence we found,” I say. “Particularly prints.”

  “Do you realize how many people were here during the party?” he says. “We were all over the place. Touching everything.”

  “I’m sure that’s it,” I say, as if I actually am.

  46

  “Handwriting results are back,” Reggie says.

  We are back in her office—me, Arnie, Keisha, and Jessica—at the end of the day to share information and coordinate our efforts.

  Though it’s hours before sunset, the day is dark and thunder can be heard in the distance.

  “On both notes,” she adds. “First, the runaway note alleged to have been written by Mariah . . . actually was. Her handwriting is a match. She did write that note.”

  She pauses to let that sink in. And we do.

  “As far as the ransom note . . .” she says eventually, “everyone we’ve gotten samples from can be excluded but four people. Anybody want to guess who they are?”

  Nobody does.

  “I’m disappointed,” she says. “What if I give y’all a clue? Two of the people are from inside the house and two are from out.”

  Nobody says anything.

  “No fun at all,” she says. “Okay. The two inside . . . are . . . Trace and Irvin.”

  She pauses again to let it sink in. And again we do.

  Keisha and Arnie nod like what’s said is what they had expected.

  “And outside?” Keisha asks.

  “Hank Howard,” she says, “and Justin Harris.”

  “Both of whom have a connection to Ashley,” Keisha says. “Brother and ex-husband.”

  “This doesn’t necessarily mean one of them wrote it,” Jessica says. “Just that they can’t be eliminated.”

  “Everyone else has been eliminated,” Reggie says. “That’s good to know . . . ’Cause my money was on Ashley. That’s why we follow the evidence and not our guts.”

  “So what’s our next step?” Keisha says.

  “Additional handwriting samples,” Jessica says.

  “Right,” Reggie says. “We’ve got very specific lists of words and sentences we want them to write for us—with both their left and right hands. But . . . we’re also going to try to find random samples of their writing on other things—checks, letters, lists. Unguarded. Unrehearsed. Real and raw as we can find. Means sifting through their garbage. Whatever it takes.”

  “We have Trace’s song journal,” I say. “Should be plenty.”

  “Be a good place to start,” she says. “Okay, let’s figure out who’s doing what. We’ve got two in the area, two in Atlanta. Do we want to let the Dekalb County sheriff’s do it or take care of it ourselves?”

  “I think we need to,” Keisha says. “I don’t mind driving to Atlanta.” She turns to Arnie. “You up for a little road trip, partner?”

  He nods.

  “Okay,” Reggie says, and looks over at me.

  “I’ll take Howard and Harris,” I say.

  Jessica says, “Is not being able to eliminate these men based on their handwriting enough to get a search warrant? No tellin’ what we might find if we could take a look through their things.”

  “Probably not,” Reggie says. “We’ll need to narrow it down some more. But even if we get a match after this next round . . . handwriting analysis isn’t an exact science. Even if we could convince a judge to give us a warrant it could probably be easily appealed, which means anything we found would be fruits of a poisonous tree. We’d lose it all. Can’t afford that. The handwriting evidence will help strengthen a case made against someone we get other evidence on.”

  “Just thought the killer might have some evidence we could use or maybe he kept a memento.”

  “Like her iPod,” I say.

  “Yeah,” Jessica says.

  “It’s truly amazing,” Reggie says, “even knowing they should destroy any and all evidence, how many killers don’t. Maybe we’ll get lucky. We’re getting close folks. I want to get Trace and Ashley and Irvin and Nadine back down here for questioning soon, but I want our case built by then. We’ll have DNA results in a little while. Let’s keep at it. Work fast but carefully.”

  “I’ve got an idea I’d like for us to try,” Arnie says.

  “What’s that?”

  “Our main two suspects are together a lot,” he says. “Trace and Irvin. The media is still hounding them relentlessly. From what I hear Trace is slowly losing everything—including Ashley. Probably never be under more stress than he is right now.”

  “Yeah?”

  “And Mariah’s birthday is coming up soon. I think we should coordinate with the GBI to get Trace’s house mi
c’d up. His car and Mariah’s headstone too. No tellin’ what’s all being said right now. Could lead to the information we need—maybe even a confession. I could picture Trace and Ashley saying incriminating things in an argument or Trace going to Mariah’s grave on her birthday and breaking down and apologizing to her for what he did.”

  Something similar was done in the JonBenét Ramsey case. It didn’t yield anything useful, but that doesn’t mean this wouldn’t.

  “That’s a great idea,” she says. “Not sure I can pull it off, but it’s worth a try. That really could work if we could actually do it. I’ll see what I can do. Good thinkin’ Arnie.”

  47

  On my way to get additional handwriting samples from Hank Howard, I call Justin Harris to schedule a time to meet with him to do the same thing.

  “I don’t think so, John,” he says. “I . . . just . . . I’ve lost confidence in the investigation, in your department . . . and . . . I’ve cooperated . . . I’ve been so cooperative, but . . . I don’t know, the things I’m hearing being reported . . . I just think y’all are getting desperate to pin it on somebody and I don’t want that to be me. I’ve hired Mr. Browning and he said—”

  “You and Roger Garrett have the same attorney?” I ask.

  “We do.”

  I know Justin can’t afford Hugh Browning, so either Garrett is paying for it for some reason or Browning is providing his services pro bono. Either way it’s more than a little suspicious.

  “Is Roger Garrett still your client?” I ask.

  “What does that have to do with—”

  “Earlier you accused me of costing you his business and making yours go under.”

  “He’s still a client, but that has nothing to do with—well, anything really.”

  “Is he paying for Hugh Browning for you?”

  “That’s not—that has nothing to do with who murdered Mariah.”

  “Why would he pay for your attorney?” I ask. “Why would he want it to be the same as his? Do you have something on him? Is that how you’re keeping him as a client?”

  “Anyway, good luck with the case,” he says. “I hope you get the guy. I really do. But don’t contact me again. If you need anything in the future, call my attorney.”