Jessie Black Box Set 2

by Larry A Winters

  “If this is related, you better loop me in.”

  Jessie sipped the awful coffee again, just to delay answering. “You’ll be the first to know if anything develops.”

  Torres nodded slowly, then returned to her food.

  To be polite, Jessie remained at the table while the other two women finished their lunch. When the waitress told them their meal was on the house, Graham left a tip and the three of them walked outside. Torres said goodbye, got in an unmarked car, and drove away. Jessie was about to hit the sidewalk when Graham touched her arm.

  “Sorry. I didn’t realize how awkward that would be. But you said you needed to talk to someone in Organized Crime, and Lorena’s the best.”

  “It’s fine. You helped me out. Thank you. I appreciate it, especially with … you know—”

  “With you dedicating every second to avenging the woman who accused me of abusing my power as an officer of the law?”

  Jessie nodded. “Yeah.”

  “Well, I’m still pissed off about that, but I’m working through it. Where are you headed? I’ll give you a ride. There are some things I need to tell you.”

  “Can you give me a ride to the garage where I keep my car?”

  Graham’s eyes narrowed with concern. “You’re driving somewhere?”

  Jessie knew better than to try to conceal her plans from Emily Graham. “I’ll explain in the car.”

  18

  In Graham’s unmarked Ford, heading toward the garage where Jessie kept her car, Graham said, “I assume the questions you were asking about Vicki Briscoe have something to do with Kelly Lee?”

  Jessie stared out the windshield at Philadelphia traffic. “Do you really want to know?”

  “I’m asking, aren’t I?”

  “I thought you didn’t want anything to do with looking into Kelly’s accident.”

  Jessie saw her friend’s jaw flex. “I never said that.”

  “Okay. I guess I misinterpreted.”

  Graham piloted the car through a snarl of traffic, then seemed to relax slightly. “I’m a good detective, regardless of what someone like Kelly Lee might claim.”

  “I agree. I would never believe otherwise.”

  Graham nodded. “I gave Douglas Shaw an unexpected visit.”

  “What?” Jessie leaned forward. The seat belt cut into her shoulder.

  “We had a little talk about the case against Boffo, and about Lee’s convenient death.”

  “Just you and Shaw? No other cops?”

  Graham seemed to hesitate. “No other cops, but….” She took her eyes off the road and glanced at Jessie. “I ran into Leary in the parking lot. We interviewed Shaw together.”

  “Leary was there?” Leary had insisted that she stay away from the case, but then he’d secretly gone to investigate it himself? She knew his motive had probably been to protect her, but she felt a rush of anger in spite of that—or maybe because of that. She was an assistant DA, not some naive girl in need of protection.

  “He’s trying to look out for you,” Graham said. “So am I.”

  “Thanks so much,” she said sarcastically. “Did you happen to learn anything useful while you were protecting me from myself?”

  “Not really. Shaw isn’t sad about Lee’s death. He admitted that. But that’s all he admitted.”

  “What about the missing files? The men I caught searching Kelly’s apartment?”

  “I confronted him about that. If anything, he seemed kind of surprised.”

  Jessie thought about that. She pushed her anger down and said, “What was your gut reaction?”

  Graham let out a breath and shook her head. “I’m not sure. It’s definitely possible that he was involved in Lee’s death and the theft of her files, but I didn’t get the strong feeling that I was talking to a liar. Or a killer.”

  “What about Leary?”

  “You’d have to ask him, I guess.”

  “I plan to.” She felt her anger return.

  “Your turn. Why am I driving you to your car? You only use it when you leave the city.”

  “I need to run something down. A loose end.”

  “Related to Vicki Briscoe?” Concern filled Graham’s face. “Jessie, the Briscoes are dangerous people. You cannot start poking around in their lives, or anyone else in that gang.”

  “You heard Torres say Vicki Briscoe lost her medical license recently, right?”

  Graham nodded as she swerved around a car that was parallel parking. “Yes.”

  “Who do you think brought the medical malpractice claim?”

  Graham let out a low whistle. “So now you have two suspects in a murder the official police report says didn’t happen?”

  “Relax, Emily. I’m not going to put myself in danger. I know someone who knows Vicki Briscoe. I’m just going to visit him, get a sense of whether she might have been involved. If I think she was, I’ll let you know and hopefully the PPD can run with it instead of me.”

  Graham glanced at her with a skeptical look. “And who is this person?”

  Jessie leaned back in her seat. They were in stop and go traffic now, and someone a few cars behind was leaning on the horn. “Several years ago, I tried a felony-murder case against a man named Trevor Galway. He and his friends robbed a liquor store, armed with shotguns. It would have been a straightforward robbery except that some kid in the back of the store had his own gun and tried to be a hero. One of Galway’s buddies blew the guy’s head off. Under the felony-murder rule, all of them were guilty.”

  “So Galway went down on a murder charge?”

  “Yes. And when we looked into him, we learned that his girlfriend was the daughter of a well-known area criminal, Ray Briscoe. But we didn’t find any connection between Briscoe’s gang and the robbery-murder.”

  “His girlfriend was Vicki Briscoe?”

  Jessie nodded. “I thought the defense might call her to the stand as a character witness either during the defense stage of Galway’s trial or afterward during the sentencing phase. But she never even came close to the courthouse. She dropped the guy entirely.”

  “Cold.”

  “Exactly. That’s why I think Galway might be willing to share some information about his former girlfriend with me now.”

  “It’s an idea,” Graham said, still looking skeptical. “Assuming he doesn’t hate you more than he hates her. For, you know, being the person who actually put him in prison.”

  Jessie conceded the point with a nod. “There’s that. Still worth a try.”

  “Where is he?”

  “Frackville.”

  Graham made a face.

  “I’ve been there before,” Jessie said.

  State Correctional Institution–Frackville was a prison complex off Interstate 81 in Schuylkill County. Getting there would take Jessie about two hours driving through mostly rural areas—four hours round trip—and when she arrived, she’d be entering one of Pennsylvania’s toughest maximum-security correctional facilities.

  “Frackville is dungeon for monsters,” Graham said.

  “I’ll have the protection of guards at all times. And Galway’s not so much a monster as a victim of his own bad decisions. He’s not a member of the Dark Hounds, or any other gang.”

  “Promise me you’ll be as careful as possible.”

  “Come on, Emily. You know me.”

  “That’s what worries me.” She pulled off the street, and into the parking garage.

  19

  After a two-hour drive, Jessie turned her car onto the grounds of the Frackville State Correctional Institution. Its six housing units were spread over about thirty-five acres of land, set off from the surrounding towns by a buffer of about 174 acres. From the comfort of her car, the area seemed serene, peaceful. If not for the razor wire and the guard towers, it might have resembled a college campus. But she knew that illusion would burst the moment she stepped foot inside.

  The place was, as Graham had described it, a dungeon full of monsters. A maximu
m security prison housing over a thousand of the state’s most violent adult male inmates.

  She parked her car, took a deep breath, and opened the door. Inside, she waited while guards confirmed her ID, then escorted her past several doors, gates, and barricades to a visitation room. Here she waited while other guards retrieved Trevor Galway from his housing unit.

  The visitation room was a fifteen-foot-square box with cement walls. Metal furniture was bolted to the floor. A table and two chairs, cold to the touch. She resisted the instinct to shiver or hug herself. She knew she was probably being observed, and it was hard enough to be taken seriously as a woman in this place.

  Through the cement walls she could hear the typical sounds she’d come to associate with prisons and jails—echoing footsteps, distant yelling, the loud buzz of doors opening and closing. It was a grim atmosphere.

  A louder buzz sounded as the door to the visitation room unlocked and opened. A burly corrections officer delivered Trevor Galway to the room. The lanky, red-haired inmate glanced briefly at her, then fixed his gaze down at his white, prison-issued slippers. Jessie watched silently as the guard went through the ritual of securing Galway to the floor and the table by threading his handcuff and ankle chains through rings attached to both surfaces. The jingling sound was like a dark parody of a happy Christmas scene. When the procedure was finished, and Galway was secured, the guard finally took his attention off the inmate and looked at Jessie.

  “Just knock on the door when you’re done.” With that, he exited the room, leaving Jessie alone with a man she had prosecuted and convicted of murder.

  An odor of sweat and musk wafted off the man. He had been in his late twenties when Jessie prosecuted his felony-murder trial. Now, in his early thirties, he was still a relatively young man. But he didn’t look it. Prison had hardened him, taken the youthful vitality out of him. He looked almost like a different person.

  “Thanks for agreeing to meet with me, Trevor,” she said, straining to keep her voice level.

  Galway looked at her. She was surprised by the lack of resentment or anger in his gaze. She’d expected hostility, but, if anything, he looked happy to see her. Or maybe just happy to have any visitor. “Sure. Sure.” He leaned toward her eagerly. His chains jingled. “You said you wanted my help with some kind of case? Does that mean you can help me, too? We can make some kind of deal?”

  The look of hope in his face gave her a pang of guilt. She wasn’t here with authorization to make any deals. Hell, she wasn’t here with any authorization at all. “It’s too early to talk about deals. Right now, I’m just curious if you have some information that might be helpful.”

  “Sure. Sure,” he said again, nodding his head. The phrase seemed to be a kind of verbal tic, but she didn’t remember him having it during his trial. Had he picked it up during his incarceration? Jessie pretended not to notice.

  “I’d like to talk to you about the Dark Hounds Motorcycle Club.”

  “Don’t know what I can tell you about them. I was never a member, you know. I mean, I met Ray a bunch because of Vicki, and I guess I saw some stuff, but I wasn’t in the club.”

  “I understand that, Trevor.”

  “I think about killing myself every day, you know?”

  The non-sequitur threw her for a second. She took a breath, studying him. “I’m sure it’s very difficult for you in here.”

  “Sure. Sure. But that’s not what I mean. This place”—he waved a hand—“it’s not that bad. But the dead guy—you know, the man Billy shot—every time I try to sleep, I see that guy. It was like, one second he’s a human being like you or me just going through his day. Just doing his job at the store. And then Billy moves his finger.” Galway demonstrated by lifting his shackled wrist from the table and twitching the index finger of his right hand. “Just this little movement of his finger. And the guy’s dead. Gone.”

  Jessie felt an ache of sympathy for the man. It was a quirk of the felony-murder rule that people who didn’t actively commit a murder, and may have never murdered anyone in their lives, could still be convicted of murder simply by being an accomplice to a crime in which a person died. One of the purposes of the rule was to serve as a deterrent to people to engage in potentially violent crimes. Jessie had mixed feelings about it, but overall, she supported the idea, even as she felt bad for men like Galway.

  “That man’s death was a terrible tragedy,” Jessie said.

  Galway nodded miserably. “Sure. Sure.”

  “I’m actually here to talk about Vicki Briscoe. At the time of your arrest, I understand you had been together for several years, were even living together I believe?”

  “Right.”

  “I’m hoping you can give me some insight into her character. I know about her father’s record, obviously, but I also know being a criminal isn’t genetic. Can you tell me if you think Vicki is capable of killing someone out of spite, or for revenge?”

  He looked away from her. “I don’t want to talk about Vicki.”

  “Why not?”

  “I just don’t.”

  “Do you still have feelings for her?” Jessie had not expected that to be the case. “You know Vicki could have testified on your behalf at your trial, right? She could have made a real difference, especially at your sentencing hearing. Did your defense attorney tell you that?”

  His gaze roamed the bare walls of the room as he avoided her gaze.

  “Trevor, listen to me. Vicki could have told the court about your good character. The judge might not have stuck you in this place for so many years.”

  Galway shrugged. “I don’t know about that.”

  “Has she visited you here?”

  “It’s a long ride.”

  “It’s two hours. I did it.”

  He shrugged again.

  “Trevor,” she pressed, “Vicki has no right to expect loyalty from you. She abandoned you.”

  Galway surprised her again, this time by letting out a rueful laugh. “I doubt Vick expects anything. She’s probably forgotten about me. Sure, sure. That’s for the best. But I love her. Always will.”

  “Okay.” Jessie took another breath. She’d banked on Galway’s resentment, but that wasn’t going to work. She needed to take a different tack. “Those are your feelings. I respect that. But can you tell me anything? Anything about Vicki’s involvement in her father’s motorcycle club? Anything about her plans for the future? I know she went to medical school and became a doctor. That must have been important to her. Not an easy road. Can you tell me about that?”

  “I told you I don’t want to talk about Vicki.”

  Jessie suppressed a sigh. She’d traveled a long way to come to this prison. The thought of turning around for another two-hour drive, after learning nothing, was dispiriting. “Can you tell me if Vicki knew anything about explosives? For example, could she arrange for a car to explode, and make it look like an accident?”

  She saw the muscles bunch beneath his lean face. He looked away from her.

  “Trevor?” She leaned toward him. “Trevor, you said Gustavo Martìnez’s death still haunts you.” Her use of the name of the man who died in the convenience store brought his gaze back to hers. “There’s a death that haunts me right now. A woman I used to know. A friend. I’m trying to figure out what happened to her. Please help me with this. I need to know if Vicki, or anyone she’s close with, has expertise in explosives.”

  With startling suddenness, Galway’s face filled with rage. “Stay away from Vicki or you’ll be sorry!”

  “Why does that question upset you?”

  “I want you to leave.” Galway twisted away from her. She could see his expression soften as he regained control of himself. “I’m not talking to you anymore. Not another word.”

  Jessie stood up, crossed to the door, and knocked for the corrections officer. She wasn’t going to get any more cooperation from Galway, but maybe she wasn’t going to leave as empty-handed as she’d feared. The way he’d reacted t
o her question about explosives meant something. If he’d responded with a denial, or surprise, or even silence, she might have taken nothing from it. But his sudden, unprovoked anger? That could only mean Jessie was on to something.

  20

  By the time Jessie finished the long drive back from the Frackville State Correctional Institution, returned her car to its parking garage, and walked back to her apartment building, she was exhausted. She unlocked her door and practically staggered inside. The lights were off, which she was not expecting.

  “Leary?” She dropped her bag and keys on the kitchenette counter. “Okay, guess I’m alone.”

  “Not quite,” said a voice from the shadows of the living room.

  Jessie swung around. At the same moment, the light went on. A woman sat on her couch. Red hair, angry face, serious-looking boots. Vicki Briscoe.

  Jessie advanced toward her. “What the hell do you think you’re doing here? You broke into my apartment?”

  Briscoe shrugged. She looked totally relaxed, reclining on the couch with one leg crossed over the other, as casual as a visiting friend. A cold feeling of uncertainty spread through Jessie’s body. How dangerous was this woman? Somehow the lack of an aggressive stance made her seem even more unnerving.

  “I hear you’ve been asking questions about me,” Briscoe said.

  Don’t let her intimidate you. “Isn’t that an occupational hazard in your line of business?”

  “The medical business?”

  “The organized crime business.”

  Briscoe studied her evenly. “I’ve been doing some research on you, too, Jessica Black. Actually, my file on you dates back years. All the way back to when you sent Trevor away for a murder he had nothing to do with.”

  “He was an accomplice to a crime during which—”

  “I’m familiar with the felony-murder rule.”

  “I imagine you’re familiar with a lot of laws. Criminal ones and maybe civil ones, too. For example, the kind that might be applicable to a medical malpractice case.”