by John Luciew
“Have you been interviewed by police?” asked a reporter to his far left. Prather turned to make eye contact. “Of course.” A forced grin stretched the skin of his face. That’s when I noticed it. The pattern of scratches.
Four deep cuts ran down the right side of Sonny Prather’s face. Four cuts perfectly spaced, just like the four fingers of a hand. There was a similar pattern on his neck, only those cuts didn’t run straight. They were in a swirl, as if whoever had been clawing at him was being pushed away and was trying desperately to hold on. Or stay alive.
It was all the proof I needed. I imagined this man preventing Debbie Moore’s escape from the burning bar. She could claw at him with her fingernails, but he had possessed more powerful weapons to hold her at bay.
“Jesus Christ, he did it,” I whispered. “It’s him.”
Cassie stopped scribbling notes and looked at me. “What?”
“It’s him,” I said again. “He torched the place, then fought his way out.”
“It doesn’t add up,” she said.
But I was already on my feet, shouting Prather’s name and waving my notebook in the air to catch his attention.
I felt Cassie’s hand on my forearm, tugging me down. “No, Telly,” she said. “Don’t do it.” But it was too late. Prather was nodding and pointing at me with a bandaged hand.
“Thank you,” I said, the roomful of reporters turning to me. “I commend you on your generosity, Mr. Prather. But I want to get a better feel for what it was like inside your club on that fateful night.”
He dipped his head reluctantly, as if the subject was painful but he’d endure it.
“Those scratches on your face. They look pretty nasty.”
He moved a bandaged hand toward his face but didn’t actually touch himself. It was an odd reaction, as if he wasn’t aware just how apparent the scratches were. As if he were insecure about them. Or guilty about how he’d acquired them.
“It’s nothing,” he said. “A little scratch. Nothing compared to what other victims have endured.”
“They look like fingernail marks,” I said. “Were you in a fight?”
He shifted in his seat. “No.” he scoffed. “Not at all. It was a little chaotic in the club, is all. Lots of smoke. People couldn’t see. A lot of them were waving their hands around. I must’ve caught it on the face. It’s nothing, really.”
He looked away from me, but before he could entertain another question, I shouted another one of my own. “And those hands of yours? What happened to them?”
“Uh, there was a fire,” he shot back. “I got burned.”
“Of course. But why just your hands?”
“I must’ve touched something hot,” he said. “You don’t realize how intense the heat was. The flames super-heated everything, all surfaces, even in areas that weren’t actually burning at the time.”
“Surfaces?” I repeated. “What kind of surfaces?”
“We used a lot of stainless steel in decorating the club. The bar itself was stainless steel, all the shelving and even some of the wall decorations. All the chairs were metal, too. All of it got hot really fast. I must have touched the wrong thing.”
Something clicked in my mind. Yes, I thought. Yes you did. Only you didn’t burn your hands on a metal object in your trendy bar. I’d bet any money that the real culprit was a metal strong box containing the night’s receipts. I had been observing him for all of forty minutes, yet I knew Sonny Prather wasn’t the type who’d abandon his burning bar without rescuing his stash of cash. He ran back to his office, grabbed a bat or a stun gun, along with the night’s take. Then he fought his way out. I was sure of it.
“One last thing,” I jumped back in. “You a fiction reader, Mr. Prather?”
“I like Grisham,” he said. “Laura Lippman’s not bad, either. Why?”
“Ever read a book called Hell Fires?”
He squinted, as if trying to summon the information, then shook it off. “No. Not that I can remember. What’s this about?”
Other reporters began shouting questions then. I had held the floor too long and veered too far off the subject.
But the clamoring press would not distract Sonny Prather. He studied me, his eyes asking what I was after. More to the point, what I knew.
Chapter 22
“The fuck were you doing in there?” Cassie demanded as soon as we whirled through the hospital’s revolving door and out into the Baltimore chill. “You totally sold me out.” She fumbled for a cigarette.
“I thought you quit,” I said, as she cupped her lighter against the wind.
“Never mind. Who told you to give up Hell Fires?” Smoke wafted from her mouth as she spoke. It was as if she were breathing fire at me. “That was supposed to be an exclusive. The whole damn pack has it now.”
“Not likely. If the New York Times can’t track down a copy, no one in there’s gonna get one, either. But that’s not the point, Cassie. You’re missing the big picture here. It was Prather. He did it.”
“I still don’t buy it.” She turned her head and blew smoke out of the side of her mouth.
“I’ll prove it. We gotta get to a cop. Who do you trust down here?”
She eyed me. “No one. Not even you.”
“Then give me your cell phone. I need to make a call.”
I dialed Dave Langhorne.
“Who the hell’s C. Jordan?” the detective demanded after the second ring having checked his caller ID.
“It’s Telly.”
“Even worse,” he hissed. “You should know better than to call me directly.”
“It’s not my phone.”
“Maybe not, but the mention of your name is enough to get a cop on desk duty around here. Feebs are apeshit over your story today.”
I felt my stomach clench. “They’re not denying it, are they?” An outright denial by a government agency was a red flag in journalism.
“Not denying. Not confirming. Not commenting. Typical FBI bullshit. Seems a certain senator’s all pissed off that he wasn’t kept informed on the investigation. So this senator went on TV playing the victim and made a damn fool of hisself.”
I smiled at Hammond Hollister’s embarrassing plight, supremely satisfied that I’d been able to trip him up. “So they’re holding off on confirming the story for his sake? I don’t get it.”
“I don’t know what’s goin’ on. Everybody’s holdin’ their tongues.”
“But the information was solid? The story’s safe?” I needed reassurance. I was in a reporter’s no man’s land, the torturous, wind-twisting period after breaking a story but before it’s been picked up by other papers or confirmed through other sources.
“Relax, Tellis. You’re still jittery from when Gov. Winters nailed your ass. Yeah, the story’s good. Give it a day to play out. FBI’ll come around. When there’s something new, I’ll find a way to get it to you. Just don’t come by the station again. After this, we gotta keep our distance.”
I blew out air. My anxiety eased. I should never have doubted Langhorne. He was standup. That’s why I was sure he could point me to the right people in Baltimore.
“Dave, I need another favor.”
“When don’t you?”
“It’s about that bar fire in Baltimore.”
“Baltimore.” Only, Langhorne pronounced it Ballmere. “Whatchu doin’ down there?”
I filled him in on my involvement and the story’s tragic ties to Harrisburg.
“So where to do I come in?” he asked.
“You’re about to do the Baltimore PD a huge service.”
“I am?”
“I have solid information about a suspect. I just want to make sure it gets into the right hands. You take credit for the tip, I don’t care. It’s just that things have to move quickly. I think the guy might know people are onto him. Is there someone down here you trust?”
“Sure, I got people in Ballmere,” he said. “Got friends on the force and cuzes in the projects. What’
s the tip?”
I told him about my suspicions of Sonny Prather as Cassie Jordan stood nearby, a mute observer.
“Sounds like they’re already lookin’ at him pretty close,” Langhorne commented.
“They are, but Prather’s playing it smart. Cops have no cause for a search. But they don’t know about the weapons and the cash.”
“Weapons?”
“Yeah, I think the guy had one of those stun gun things. Maybe a baseball bat,” I said. “It’s the only way the shrimpy bastard could’ve gotten out of the bar that night. He used the weapons to get people out of his way and save his own ass. I’ll bet he didn’t say anything about having a stun gun in the bar in his statement to police. Cops could check out something like that and find out if he lied. Then, they’d have probable cause.”
“Gettin’ pretty good at this,” Langhorne said, his deep voice rolling into a satisfied chuckle. “But I’ll be the judge of what makes a righteous search. What else you got?”
I told him about the possibility of a missing strong box brimming with the night’s receipts. “My guess is he kept both the weapons and the cash in his office. The place is going up in smoke, but he makes a detour to get both. That’s how he burned his hands. The metal strong box got hot.”
Langhorne hummed agreement. “Seems to me this guy woulda had some kinda safe in that office of his, seeing how he’s so security conscience ‘n all. Be easy enough for the cops to check if there was any money left in it. Then they can go back on Prather’s statement. I’m sure he didn’t say anything about rescuing the cash. Better to jack up the insurance claim.”
“Now you’re talkin’,” I cheered. “Then all the cops have to do is get a search warrant. In all the confusion of the fire, he coulda dumped the stuff in his car, then doubled back to play good Samaritan without ever being missed.”
“Yeah, he could,” Langhorne agreed.
“Have the cops check out those scratches on his face,” I added. “He mixed it up with somebody inside that bar. There might be DNA on whatever weapons they recover, too. Proof he used them on people inside the bar.”
“It plays, all right.” Langhorne said, but his tone signaled a final reservation. “My only question is, where’d you get all this?”
“Sources,” I said. “Sources unable to come forward at this time.”
“Yeaaaah, right,” Langhorne said. “Somehow, I knew you’d say that. One of these days, we gonna have a talk. But right now, I need to make a call. Got some info for a buddy a mine down in Ballmere.”
Chapter 23
I waited for Cassie in a Fells Point pub called the Cat’s Eye Saloon. It was my kind of dive, a narrow little place across a cobblestone street from the water. In the old days, the place would have been filled with sailors. That afternoon, it was just the usual drunks. Then again, there wasn’t much difference between the two.
The place was decorated with nicotine-yellowed memorabilia. Christmas lights flashed and twinkled around a hazy mirror behind the bar. I had a feeling the lights stayed up no matter what the season. But it all worked.
I hoisted Yuengling Lagers and husked peanuts, throwing the shells on the dirty wooden floor. My eyes were fixed on the TV to the left of the bar, where the day’s events played out in silence.
News of the search warrant leaked almost immediately. A cadre of reporters and cameras -- what people in the business called the pack -- stood witness as a team of grim-faced detectives served the warrant at Prather’s Federal Hill town home.
As the news updates flashed, a couple of people at the bar groused how they knew Prather was a no good sumbitch all along. How his cover charges were too high. How his drinks were watered down. How all the waitresses were hoes.
Video rolled when cops popped the trunk on Prather’s Jag, which was parked under a carport in back of the house. Crime scene techs wearing latex gloves carefully lifted out items inside, then bagged each one. It was easy to make out the smoke-blackened strong box. Other items were more difficult to determine, but I was sure one of them was a stun gun.
I ordered another drink to celebrate. I lifted the glass, made a silent toast to Debbie Moore, then took a long swallow.
More than a few beers later, Cassie arrived, fresh from filing her story.
“How many to catch up?” she asked, smiling and slapping my shoulder, then mounting the stool next to me. She was still running on adrenaline from the story.
“Forget that. What’s the latest on the case?”
“You were right, Telly,” Cassie said, feigning annoyance. “How many times do you want me to say it? They found a nightstick and some kind of electronic cattle prod, along with the cash. Looks like there might be DNA on both weapons, as if he used them to ensure his escape from the fire. It’s official, okay. I was wrong. You were right, oh great and wise master of journalism.” She raised her hands and began bowing. “You happy now?”
Actually, I was. The arrogant Prather had been driving around with his instruments of death ever since the fatal fire. Surely he’d had chances to get rid of the items. But why discard a perfectly good nightstick and cattle prod? The damned things were probably expensive. And he’d never part with the soot-stained cash. Not in a million years. Just like he was never going to part with his $1 million pledge. Pledges had a way of being broken when the media attention died down and the cops were no longer eyeing you for arson.
“If it’s any consolation, I wasn’t right about everything,” I offered. “I was betting on a baseball bat and a stun gun, myself.”
Cassie shot me a disbelieving look. “Yeah, you were waaay off base. Now can a girl get a drink around here or what?” Cassie brought two fingers to her mouth and whistled at the tender at the other end of the bar. He had his face buried in the sports section of the Baltimore Sun. “Bourbon, neat and back me up with a beer,” she shouted.
I studied her face as the barkeep presented her with the liquor. “Cassie, do you think that’s a good idea?” She glanced at me. I jerked my head toward the booze.
“Your health, I mean. Is it okay to be drinking like that?” It was a delicate reference to Cassie’s brush with Hepatitis C. One of her poorer decisions regarding men had exposed her to the liver-attacking virus. She had promised me she’d get tested.
Cassie looked away. “Yeah, everything’s fine.” But she could not issue her denial while meeting my eyes. “Can’t a reporter have a damn drink around here? Or do you want it all for yourself?” With that, she threw back the bourbon, exhaling as she slapped the shot glass on the worn, wooden bar. “Hit me again,” she commanded the bartender. “Telly, you in? The Times is buyin’.”
“I better stick to beer, then move to coffee. I gotta drive back tonight.”
“Don’t be silly. I have a suite. You can have the couch. C’mon, we rocked today. My editors are creamin’ themselves.”
“Yeah, well my editor’s a little less enthusiastic,” I said. “If he saw me at that press conference, my ass is back on suspension.”
“It’d be a little hard to miss you, the way you were firing off questions.” Cassie elbowed me, then polished off her second shot.
“That’s what I mean. I gotta get back. I still got a dead reporter up there and a senator who thinks it shoulda been him.”
“Yeah, I know,” Cassie said, her smile fading. She turned away from me and stared into her beer. “It’s just that it was good working with you again.”
“It was.” I touched her shoulder. “Real good. Now it’s your turn. I thought you were gonna sell your editors on giving you a piece of the Harrisburg story.”
“Not likely,” she said. “Too much goin’ on down here, thanks to you. I gotta hang out and see if they charge Prather with the arson. Looks like they got him dead to rights on reckless endangerment and depraved indifference for his less than heroic actions inside the club. But early word coming from the cops is they didn’t find anything tying him to the actual arson. Prather lawyered up, so he’s not talking. W
ho knows, maybe the guy was just a greedy bar owner who panicked while trying to flee the flames with the night’s take.”
“It’s early yet,” I said. “Never know what they’ll turn up. I bet sitting in that press conference today, you never thought Prather’d be in handcuffs by end of business.”
“No.” Cassie turned to me. Her smile was back. “You got me there.” She raised her glass for a toast. We clanked, then drank.
Cassie wiped foam from her lips. “It’s just that damn newspaper box in front of the door,” she said. “It doesn’t work with Prather as the firebug. Not with a timer on the device. And not with that door barricaded and him still inside. It’s too risky.”
“Either way, the guy’s pond scum,” I said.
“Shit, he’s pond scum that’s been eaten by frogs, shat out and feasted upon by maggots.” Cassie raised her glass for another toast, and I joined her.
“Just one more,” I said, frowning at my empty glass. I tried to sound definite and firm about this, but I couldn’t even fool myself.
It felt too damn good being back with Cassie again.
Chapter 24
If I would have known what I was returning to, I would have stayed in Baltimore. As it was, I barely made it out of the bar. Cassie kept buying drinks and calling toasts. I finally forced myself from the stool well after midnight. We hugged, and she whispered that I should have “just one more.” It was on the New York Times, after all.
Her boozy breath felt hot on my neck, and the offer was more than tempting. But I had made it to my feet, and I knew if I sat down again, I might not be so lucky next time. I reached for my wallet and went through a show of digging for a couple of twenties. But Cassie insisted the tab was hers. As I stumbled out of the bar, I could hear her ordering another whiskey.