The Price of Candy sr-2

by Rod Hoisington

  “We’re a long way from kidnapping here. Kids under twelve are usually right around the house or out playing. Was she kidnapped or merely missing? Did someone see her being carried away?”

  “I don’t have a ransom note in my hand if that’s what you’re asking. But she’s not out playing somewhere. She told her girlfriend she was going out to find me.”

  “And you jumped to the kidnapping conclusion. Look, believe me it’d be different if she left home for school and never arrived. That’s very scary and we jump right on those cases. But you’re talking about a kid out playing who hasn’t come home.”

  “Look, Abby and Toby were obviously involved in something. I’m willing to believe it wasn’t child porn. But Jamie’s a bright kid and she knows something wrong is going on in that house. She might have thought up the porn angle to get back at her mother. But I’m betting she’s being straight with me, and is just somehow mistaken about the actual situation. It’s something serious enough to make Abby want Toby dead and want me involved as her witness. This morning I was willing to drop it and butt out.”

  “Good idea,” he offered.

  “Later, Jamie turns up missing—too much of a coincidence. I’m convinced something criminal is going on.”

  “Okay, seeing as we had that shooting last night, I guess I can break procedures somewhat. I’ll send a deputy over to the house. He can write up a report and help the mother search the place.”

  “What do you mean? He’s going to look under the bed?”

  “You’re damn right. As a first step, he’ll conduct a complete search of the house. Including under the beds, in closets, and in the garage.”

  “Can you send Detective Pomar?”

  “Pomar is suspended from duty pending an investigation into why the two of you were outside Abby Olin’s house last night.”

  “Oh God, I’m sorry about that. So you’ll send a deputy to the house. You’re talking minutes here, not hours, right?”

  “It’ll take time. If he doesn’t find the girl at home, then the deputy will call his supervisor for instructions. Next step would be to check with friends, neighbors, relatives, acquaintances, playmates, classmates. It’s going to take time. I’m telling you, ninety-nine times out of a hundred someone knows or has a good idea why a child is missing.”

  “One super-cop is going to do all this?”

  “Well, that’s how we’ll start.”

  “You’ve got it wrong. You don’t need cops over there at the house. They should be over here where her bike was found.”

  “I don’t think we can do that.”

  “For chrissake, the crime scene is over here! I just know it is. I’m not leaving this spot until someone intelligent—wearing plain clothes—gets here. He better be an experienced detective and CSI better be right behind him.”

  “Sandy, be reasonable.”

  “Okay, I’ll be reasonable. I really hate to threaten you, but I’ll give you only one hour to get a crew over here canvassing this neighborhood and securing this crime scene. You need to find someone who saw a man leading away a little girl and putting her in a car. You must do this immediately. One hour, then I phone the newspaper and a TV reporter.”

  “Oh, Christ. Where are you? I’ll come over myself. Am I intelligent enough for you?”

  “You’ll do fine. Now how do I start an Amber Alert?”

  “You’re not going to get one. They use Amber Alert usually when a car is involved. So with no evidence of a car being involved I doubt if they’d do it this early.”

  “Sure, no car was involved. He tossed her over his shoulder and sauntered down the sidewalk with her kicking and screaming. We’ll talk when you get here.” She snapped her phone shut.

  She was still pumped and couldn’t just stand there doing nothing. She phoned Chip and told him what happened. Could the city police do anything?

  “Slow down, you’re talking too fast.”

  She went on to explain about finding the bike and phoning Triney.

  Chip said, “I hear someone honking their horn. What’s going on over there?”

  “Oh, that’s because my car is blocking traffic. I’m trying to protect this crime scene. I don’t want cars up along the curb where the perp must have parked when he grabbed her. So everyone has to detour around. Abby said something strange when I phoned her a few minutes ago to ask if Jamie had returned home. Before she hung up on me, she said at least we know Toby doesn’t have her. In other words, if she hadn’t shot him, she’d suspect him of the kidnapping.”

  “I guess you don’t know, Sandy. They identified the man Abby shot and killed last night and it wasn’t somebody named Toby.”

  “Good grief! Who was it?”

  “Some man named Bruce Banks.”

  The phone almost slipped from her hand. “Impossible, Chip. Not Bruce Banks. Impossible! Someone has the names crossed up in the Police Report. I can promise you it wasn’t Bruce Banks who she shot. He's up in Delaware.” She hung up and steadied herself against the car. "God, I hope he's up in Delaware," she said aloud.

  Strange and improbable. So improbable it had to be a mistake. Too confusing for her to think about just then. Her Miata blocked traffic in the middle of the street where she’d stopped when she first noticed the abandoned bicycle under the ficus hedge. Traffic was backed up to the intersection, horns were honking, and drivers were yelling.

  She called out to the drivers that the car couldn’t be moved; they’d have to go around. They’d yell back, “Then push the damn thing out of the way.” She also stood blocking the sidewalk and told people to cross the street and not walk on the side near the hedge.

  Finally, a sheriff’s deputy pulled up, flipped on his overhead emergency lights, and popped his siren for a single loud yelp. He got out yelling, “Move your vehicle over to the curb, lady.” He started toward her, walking between her car and the curb. She screamed at him, “Stop, don’t walk along there.”

  He ignored her and repeated, “Move your vehicle over to the curb.”

  “This is the crime scene, officer. This is what you’re looking for. The kidnapper’s car must have stopped right where you’re walking. Why do you think I’m standing here yelling, waving my arms, and everyone’s giving me the finger?”

  “The kidnapper’s car?”

  “Didn’t Detective Triney send you over here?”

  Next, a second sheriff’s patrol unit arrived. The uniformed driver got out. She noticed the stripes on his arm and rushed up to him. “Thank god you’re here, Sergeant. I hope you brought plenty of yellow tape with you.”

  “You Sandra Reid?”

  She nodded.

  “You’re under arrest for conspiracy to commit murder.”

  Chapter Ten

  For the first time in her life, Sandra Reid was under arrest. She had ridden occasionally in the front seat of squad cars and police cruisers in Philadelphia and in Florida, unofficially in technical violation of departmental rules. That was fun. This was handcuffs.

  Her protests to the sergeant weren’t about her arrest. She had yelled about Jamie’s bike back there in the bushes where deputies were trampling over the scene of a kidnapping to break up a stupid traffic jam. The arresting sergeant ignored her. Eventually, she gave up, sat quietly in the backseat behind the heavy metal grating, and wondered who was dead.

  According to the arrest warrant the sergeant had shown her, she had conspired to murder Bruce Banks, who should be home in Delaware. Conspired meant someone else was involved and that would be Abby. How could it happen? No one else locally had ever heard the name of Bruce Banks.

  A deputy took her to the sheriff’s office in West County. She was searched, fingerprinted, photographed, and asked a series of routine questions about her personal status. They cataloged and stored her personal property including her cell phone and her favorite piece of jewelry, a rehabilitated 1933 Mickey Mouse wristwatch. The deputies moving about, doing their jobs in such a police setting was all familiar to her
. The cops were okay; it was the process that was frightening. She was quiet, not to protect her rights or anything like that, but because the procedure was too scary for any of her usual light banter with cops. It would have been much worse, she told herself, without Detective Lieutenant Triney standing in the corner of the room.

  The deputies booking her were aware he was hovering, watching them, and occasionally giving their suspect his warm easy smile. He came over after the booking and told her he had already notified Jerry Kagan.

  “I appreciate you watching out for me. But now the crime scene where I found the bike is all trampled from cops unblocking the traffic and arresting me. Also, I left my laptop on the front seat of my Miata.”

  “I’ll go back over there now and look around,” he said. “We have your laptop, and the county towed your vehicle to the county auto pound."

  They put her in a holding cell, another chilling procedure for all except a seasoned criminal. It helped to remember she was innocent. Thankfully, Kagan was waiting for her there.

  “How did you get here so fast?” she asked.

  “In fact, I’ve been waiting here for an hour. Detective Triney phoned me when the sheriff’s office first received the arrest warrant from Moran.”

  Jerry Kagan was still alert at age eighty something. He’d have unquestionably closed his law office by now except for her. Defending her brother had reenergized both him and his reputation.

  He said, “Abigail Olin is already under arrest. However, I’m not certain of the exact charge. Maybe she implicated you.”

  “Either that or Moran saw a slight opening to hassle me and make me sweat. Probably a little bit of both. I’ve really screwed up. Assuming Bruce Banks is the actual victim, he’d never have been down here if I hadn’t mentioned his name to Abby. Now he’s dead and I know he has three kids. I know everything about him. His wife will hate me for ruining her life. Don’t be surprised if she shows up with a gun looking for me. Toby is still on the loose. We still don’t know what he and Abby are up to. And Jamie’s missing.”

  “First, you must worry about yourself with a charge of conspiracy to commit murder against you.”

  “I should have never butted in. Now I’m in deep shit.”

  He nodded. “You are. I can’t argue about that. State Attorney Moran believes he has something on you at last. This conspiracy charge...what’s it all about?"

  “In a nutshell, when I was a teenager my mom learned I had done a little weed and stolen some of her pills. She freaked out and called a teen hotline for advice. Bottom line, I ended up in a corrupt juvenile rehab center with other girls, including Abby Olin. Bruce Banks was a counselor who sexually abused the girls and tried to abuse me. We became enemies when I didn’t put out.”

  “So both of you knew Banks and hated him and now he’s dead. Excellent motive. Doesn’t sound too good to me.”

  “He’s old news. When I innocently recalled his name to Abby, she must have contacted him, most likely by email. She wanted the name of a real life villain thrown in the mix so she’d have evidence she was justified in thinking she was being stalked.”

  “So, she didn’t actually expect him or want him to come down here,” he said. “She just needed any kind of response that would suggest he was interested in her.”

  “That’s my guess. She might never have dreamed he’d really show up. Hate to tell you, Jerry. Moran may get his hands on my laptop. I left it in my car.”

  “If so, it’s now evidence. Anything in there about Banks?”

  “Plenty and it’s all incriminating. I’ve kept track of Banks over the years. I’ve got personal information about him, his family, and his job that I obtained using my firm’s tracking facilities. I made a silent promise to the abused girls I’d get even someday.”

  “Does Abby know you’ve been tracking him?”

  She appeared contrite. “I told her when we got reacquainted. Do you think she told Moran?”

  “Absolutely. If he knew you had incriminating entries on your laptop, he’d definitely want it. Moran may even have had you arrested so he’d have probable cause to search your laptop. He’d never get a warrant otherwise.”

  “Is he really that clever?”

  “Even a blind squirrel will occasionally stumble over an acorn.”

  “Hey, I like that. So, what happens next?”

  “A law student shouldn’t need to ask me that. You need to brush up on the criminal process in Florida, Miss Reid.”

  “Oh, yeah. Ah...let’s see...it’s different when you’re the one involved. First, I’ll make a court appearance to be arraigned, and will enter a plea at that time. The state will ask for remand and we’ll argue for release on bail.”

  “Good. Custody is always the thing. Number one for anyone arrested is to get out of custody. You can be arrested and back on the street until your trial. But custody puts you in coveralls behind bars. The arraignment is at four this afternoon at the county courthouse.”

  “Moran has no case against me.”

  “Unfortunately, innocence is beside the point. State attorneys usually get what they want from a judge. As you know, the arraignment isn’t a trial. He just has to convince the judge something’s going on. You’re facing many weeks in jail. The judge isn’t likely to cross Moran, as he must deal with him every day. If Moran wants you held without bail, he just might get his wish. If he does agree to release you on bond, do you have any money for bail?”

  “You know I don’t have a dime. Brother Raymond has a little. He signed for my tuition loans, but I make the payments. I doubt he has any money. You’ve probably heard, at present he’s running around in Milan with Meg Emerson, his wealthy stockbroker girlfriend. She’s a magician when it comes to money and they’re going into business together. They’re starting a retirement planning firm.

  “When she said going into business, she didn’t mean hanging out her shingle in Park Beach. She’ll deal exclusively with Fortune 500 companies. Raymond will soon have a big bank account. I need to catch up. Here I am mid-thirties and my only asset is my car, gorgeous as it is. Meg told me they would hire me as counsel if I wanted to go into corporate law. I don’t want that. I want my own office in Park Beach defending the little people who the system considers powerless. That’s what’s going to happen if Moran will get off my back long enough for me to pass the bar and get my license.”

  Kagan said, “I’ll sign for your bail bond if it comes to that.”

  * * * *

  Two hours later, at the arraignment, she entered a plea of not guilty and Kagan requested release on personal recognizance. As feared, Moran objected and requested no bail and remand of the prisoner to the custody of the sheriff.

  Then Kagan spoke up unexpectedly, “Your honor, may we know the name of the other alleged conspirator?”

  The question appeared to surprise Moran and he was flustered momentarily. “...The co-conspirator is...Abigail Olin.”

  “And where is Abigail Olin at the present time?” Kagan asked.

  “What do you mean, where is she?”

  “Was she also remanded?”

  Moran now realized where this was going and looked abashed at the judge. “Your honor, that’s different. Mrs. Olin was released on her recognizance when the charge against her was manslaughter of a prowler....”

  Kagan interrupted quickly, “Your honor, why should my client, who may or may not have in truth conspired, be remanded if the alleged murderer is walking around?”

  The judge struck his gavel, “The prisoner is released on personal recognizance. Next case!”

  Chapter Eleven

  Later that same day, around six o’clock, Sandy skipped happily down the courthouse front steps. “Getting those handcuffs off is delicious. Thanks Jerry.”

  “An imperfect freedom, I’m afraid,” Kagan said. “Out of custody although still under arrest. Moran could still find a reason to go back before the judge and have your bail revoked.”

  “At least I’ve some
time to try to straighten all this out. So far not a single night in jail. You’re hot stuff, you know it? Now how do I get my car and things?”

  “I checked. There’s no hold on your vehicle, however they’re holding your cell phone and laptop for evidence. I’ll drive you out to the sheriff’s office to get your vehicle and other personal items. We’ll stop somewhere and buy a throwaway cell. I know you’d be lost without a phone.”

  “I’m lost without my laptop.”

  They drove out to West County and after obtaining the release of her Miata from the auto pound, she thanked Kagan again and he left. She went in the sheriff’s office to retrieve her personal belongings and then found Triney and thanked him.

  “Sandy you’re free. I can uncross my fingers now. But get away from me. I’m investigating you and Abby for murder conspiracy. I can’t talk to you without your lawyer present.”

  “I know you can’t talk about my case. Did I ask you to talk about my case? We’re just talking about other things. Is it hot enough for you? Will the rain hurt the rhubarb? How ‘bout them Dolphins?”

  “You’re cute. I know what you want. Okay, here it is. After you were jailed, I went to where you found the bike. I took my CSI buddy with me and we searched around. Found zilch, only a couple of old papers in the gutter but nothing fresh.”

  “Was the bike still there?”

  “Yes. And before you ask, yes, he dusted it. So we can add his name to the list of persons sticking their neck out who might be fired because of you. Only usable prints found belonged to a child.”

  “So, if Jamie ever participated in one of those Children’s Fingerprinting for Safety drives at school, we could prove the bike belonged to her.”