“Who called the police?”
“A man named Howard Swain. He found her on the floor in the men’s room. He stayed with her until the paramedics came.”
Alex’s mind drifted back to the first moment he’d found his wife, Kelsey, after her psychotic ex-husband had nearly beaten her to death. Her. A woman so kind. So tender. So damned gracious that she endured years of living hell before she figured out the liar she’d married wasn’t worth saving.
She’d escaped her murderous husband and collapsed on Alex’s cabin doorstep, and he still thanked God every day for that unique and special delivery. Kelsey might have been battered when she’d arrived, but the strength of the woman to forgive, to rally and never give up, still amazed the hell out of him. She’d re-invented herself simply by being who she was to begin with, and in the process, she’d fallen in love with him. And he with her.
Damn it. No woman deserved the crap she’d endured. No fifteen-year old girl, either.
Mother’s tapping fingernails drew his attention back to the business at hand. “Anyway, I searched the internet for the name, Mary White Hawk. I found her obituary. She just died a week ago. Isn’t that a strange coincidence, I mean considering the Chronicle Killer murders started then? She never recovered from the assault. The poor little thing spent the last fifteen years in a nursing home.”
Alex clenched his fingers as thoughts of his daughter bubbled up through his techie’s info dump. Abby died as a young girl. Car accident. Nothing as heinous as what poor Mary White Hawk endured, but grief was grief.
Ember’s brows furrowed. “Wow. Did those creeps get the death penalty?”
“No, of course not, but here’s the thing. Each one of them swore they weren’t inside Manny’s when it happened. Said they were just walking by. Right up to the day they went to prison, they insisted they didn’t do it. Don’t you find that peculiar? And another thing, Mary was a member of the Mattaponi tribe from right here in Virginia.”
“Who represented the accused? Public defender? Was it a hate crime? Did you get a copy of the police report?” Alex snapped his fingers, needing more than chit chat. Mattaponi. White Hawk. Hmm.
She rolled her eyes, another one of her annoying habits. “I really tried to do it the right way, you know that, don’t you?”
He waited, fighting the urge to growl. Mother was an excellent investigator. If only she’d drop the drama.
“DA didn’t prosecute it as a hate crime, and yes, a public defender stood up for the accused.” She handed the police report over.
About damned time.
He scanned the public record, listening while she rambled.
“Some thing’s not right in the police department. They claim they lost the rape kit. They said it was due to a clerical error, so there isn’t a bit of DNA evidence to link those three punks to this crime. Do you believe that?”
“Fingerprints? Skin cells? Hair? Scrapings? Anything?”
“No, nothing, and don’t you think that’s kind of strange after what that little girl went through with three guys? There wasn’t a single fingernail scraping to convict them. Nothing. Do you believe that?”
He rolled his shoulder, missing Murphy Finnegan all over again. The man had the patience of a saint. Alex didn’t, and he wasn’t going to start now. “What evidence did they have then? They charged and prosecuted three men. They must’ve had something.”
“Well, that’s where it gets stranger. The prosecution had two eyewitnesses. Two off-duty police officers who just happened to be celebrating one of their friends’ promotions at Manny’s that very same morning. And they claimed they heard Mr. Swain call the paramedics for help, and that’s really weird because he was in the men’s restroom when he used his cell phone. It’s not like they could’ve heard him from the bar. Another thing. They just happened to see three gang members running out the back door of Manny’s, so they chased them down and apprehended them.” Skepticism lifted Mother’s brows again. She snapped her fingers. “Do you believe all of those coincidences, Boss?”
“Did you just happen to get the booking photos?” Alex mimicked her dramatics instead of answering her question. His gut twisted. What the hell was going on in the APD?
“Of course I did. I got their mug shots, but I also got their badge numbers and pictures. Here. Look at this.”
He looked, hating that his instincts—and Mother—were right.
Three young African American males stared back at him from the papers in his hand. Angel Green, Dicky Benjamin, and Lavar Johnson, ages seventeen, nineteen, and twenty respectively. Judging by their fat lips and bruised faces, they’d been roughed up somewhere between being apprehended and the booking. It looked like Lavar Johnson cried while his picture was taken.
In comparison, the two supposed witnesses, off-duty police officers, Russell Craft and Tom Atkins, looked professional with their sharply pressed uniforms and steely-eyed looks. The bastards. Alex knew damned well. They’d bullied the confessions out of these guys.
“I want every detail in these officers’ personnel records.”
Mother handed over those copies. “Just don’t ask me how I got them.”
How could he? Alex had no clue how she got most of her intel. The woman was an annoying high-tech genius with friends in low places, and he relied on her.
Damn it. He scanned Craft’s file. Two allegations of domestic abuse. A three-day suspension. An order to attend anger management counseling, all in the year preceding the White Hawk assault. Atkins file was worse. He’d been caught falsifying police reports and bullying witnesses. Noteworthy was that he’d also attended anger management counseling the same time as Craft.
Alexandria’s finest? Like hell. The guys were thugs in blue, the worst kind of predator.
“Tell me about Swain.”
“He refused to cooperate, Boss. Said he didn’t know anything, that he’d only found the White Hawk girl when he went into the men’s room.”
Ember interrupted, laying three photos on the desk. Judging by the glint in her eyes, she’d found another silver bullet. “You’ll never believe who ordered the six Tiffany lamps these pieces came from.”
Alex stole her thunder. “Manny’s Boiler Room.”
“Very good, Alex. These lamps were a special order for their pool hall but guess what else? The owner of Sweet and Salty just remodeled, which was really a good idea because that place was so rank, and, ewww. Anyway, he auctioned off Manny’s old décor to make room for his new stuff. Guess who bought the six Tiffany lamps that used to hang over the pool tables, otherwise known as a fifteen-year-old crime scene?”
That got Alex’s attention.
Ember winked, urging him on. “Come on. You know him. Okay, maybe he’s not a friend, but go on. Guess.”
He tapped an impatient finger to his desk. “Just spit it out.”
“Crosland Webster. Bet you didn’t see that coming, did you, huh?”
No. He hadn’t seen that coming. So Webster needed to make those lamps disappear. Interesting.
Ember slid forward to the edge of her chair. “But there’s more. The night before he was supposed to pick them up, someone robbed the place. The thief stole one of those lamps. Just one.”
Plink. The puzzles pieces were coming together.
Alex stiffened in his chair. “The one over the pool table.”
She nodded. “That’s what was stuck in both victims’ throats, a piece of the exact same lamp that hung over the place where little Mary White Hawk was assaulted. The one with black number eights in the swirly green glass.”
“Manny’s used green napkins, too,” Mother interjected.
No wonder those arrows looked familiar.
“It’s Peter White Hawk,” Alex blurted.
Both women paused, surprised. Hell, it surprised him, too. Peter White Hawk was as honorable a man as Alex had ever had the good luck to work with. He gulped at the implications of that damned contract he’d signed with Webster. No wonder the bastard
needed protection. He knew damned well who was after him. And why.
“The Chronicle Killer is Mary’s father, Peter White Hawk. He killed the first two reporters. He’s going after Webster. And I’m protecting the sonofabitch.”
“You know him?” Mother asked.
“I do.” Or I did.
Alex stalked to his whiteboard, slashing it with three quick vertical lines of black marker. In the first column, he entered V. Leavitt, B. Hemmings, C. Webster. In the second: A. Green, D. Benjamin, and L. Johnson, the poor men doing time for a crime they didn’t commit. In the third: R. Craft, T. Atkins, Roger Post, the DA at the time of the White Hawk assault, along with Detectives R. Cunningham, R. Hemmings, and C. Webster.
Only one name went into the fourth column: Mary White Hawk.
He labeled the columns, his anger translated to bold black slashes.
Guilty.
Wrongfully Charged.
Accomplices B/A for before and after.
Victim.
Only one label didn’t fit. Victim. He wiped it away with the side of his hand, then put it back on the board again. It would have to suffice. Beloved daughter, the word from his father’s heart, the word that his friend, Peter, would’ve used to describe Mary, didn’t belong up there with names the likes of Webster. But then, neither did her given name.
Alex wiped both from the whiteboard. Mary was not to blame. Neither were the wrongfully charged, but the others were guilty as sin. Stifling the need to swear, if only for the way it cleared his head, Alex huffed out a deep breath. Satisfaction filled him to the hilt.
Webster wanted my help? By hell, he’s going to get it.
Gracie froze as Taylor came face to face with his uncle. Taylor might be restrained, but he was no dummy. And he knew she’d lied. She’d see it in his eyes. Her heart clamored. Surely he heard it.
He leaned forward, his head off his pillow and his brows pinched to a sharp V. “I know you. You’re Luke? You’re that guy with the kid at the range. What’s his name? Ryker? Ryder?”
He remembered Ryder? Not good.
Luke nodded. “Yes. The range. We’ve spoken before.”
Rage sparked off Taylor. His chest swelled. “You’re the asshole who shot me? What’d you do, follow me and knife my tire to make me stop, you sonofabitch? We’re going to have a talk when I get out of this damned bed. Plan on it.”
Luke shrugged. “If that will make you happy.”
Gracie patted Taylor’s arm again, needing to calm him before he started bleeding. “You don’t mean that. Luke’s your uncle. You don’t want to hurt him.”
“Like hell, I don’t. Uncle? He had no problem hurting me.”
“I only did what was necessary to stop you.”
She tried again before things got more out of hand. “It’s not like—”
“Man, you’re unbelievable,” Taylor roared. “You could’ve killed me! Don’t you get it? You didn’t even use a practice tip. You used that triple-barbed piece of crap that could’ve—”
“You’re a Marine, Taylor. Look at the size of you. A practice tip might’ve gone through your shoulder. It wouldn’t have knocked you down, which is what I needed to happen. You’re strong and determined. Would you have listened if I’d simply pulled you over to talk?”
Taylor lifted his chin to the ceiling and roared. “I don’t get you two. You’re nothing but a bunch of murderers, that’s all you White Hawks are.”
“We are not,” she insisted, “I’ve tried to—”
Luke cut her off. “You’re right. That’s all we are. Our ways are not your ways, but I respect my father’s wishes. He watched his daughter suffer. Now he’ll finish the course that was forced upon him. Your grandfather fully expects to die when this hunt is complete.”
No. No. No! Pacifying Taylor’s not the answer. Tell him the truth, Luke. Tell him about Ryder. Tell him why Ryder did what he did. Taylor will understand if you’re honest with him. I know he will.
“It’s that simple, is it? You believe you’re justified in committing murder.”
Gracie clutched Taylor’s forearm, now hardened to steel. He trembled beneath her touch, straining against the belts, the only things holding him back. If they broke...
“Wouldn’t you kill the men who defiled your child?” Luke replied. “I see it in your eyes. You’re a man of honor, just like your grandfather. You don’t have to speak it. You’d defend your woman or your child. You’d kill to protect the people you love. You’ve already proved it.”
“That’s not what this is about, and you know it. What Peter’s doing is nothing but revenge,” Taylor shot back at him.
Gracie held onto his arm for dear life. He couldn’t mean that. Anger had hold of him. Anger and all those lost years. That’s all. Once he settled down, he’d listen again. He’d hear. He had to.
Luke kept on going. “Yes, but it’s also a correction to the false justice meted out years ago when the white man’s system allowed the guilty to walk out that courthouse door while we attended to my sister. They left her for dead. And who are you to judge your grandfather so harshly? I know what happened in the Helmand Valley. You’re a great one to talk about revenge.”
Gracie held her breath. She had no idea what Luke meant.
Chapter Eleven
“Shut the fuck up! You don’t know what happened over there.”
Taylor bristled, every last nerve screaming to punch this bastard back to the Stone Ages, this sonofabitch who’d damn near killed him. Helmand Valley was off-limits. No one had any right to talk about it, much less question what happened. They didn’t know shit.
God. If I could just get to my feet!
Gracie’s fingers clamped onto his forearm, radiating calmness he didn’t need. Or want. He shrugged her off, trying to block the memories. They flooded back anyway. Like always. Hell never let him get too far away from its clutches. His nostrils filled with the smoky, septic odor of that remote Taliban village. Dread poured acid into his gut.
Remembering...
The answering mayhem of his Joint Task Force when they’d realized they were caught in an ambush. The damned chaotic retreat, returning fire every step out of there. All those little brown-eyed, skinny kids in his way. Carrying Gabe, the bloody mess of his severed foot tucked inside a plastic bag in his shirt. But mostly? Leaving Darrell Carson’s body behind. The desolation in Maverick’s eyes when they’d gotten to safety and he found out.
Because Maverick was in that ambush with his little brother. Shouldn’t have been, but, God. He was.
Adrenaline stormed the last of Taylor’s self-control. Men who fought together were bound by more than bloodlines. More like blood spilt. Acts of courage and acts of desperation. Loyalty that knew no bounds. And friends lost.
A Grand Canyon of difference stood between grief and utter desolation. Taylor saw it that day. Grief was one thing. It was sad and hard and it hurt, but one day a guy woke up and knew he’d surviv simply because he had no choice. Days passed. The sun came up. He kept breathing, and damned if life didn’t go on whether a guy wanted it to or not. Chalk it up to mankind’s instinct for survival. Whatever.
But desolation? The deepest level of Dante’s Hell.
Maverick lost more than his baby brother that day. He lost his way. His soul. Taylor watched it leak out of him from his eyes. His throat. His mouth. It seemed to drain into the dirt and dust under his boots. No, not drain. Nothing passive about desolation.
More like a siphon. Once the Task Force regrouped, and Maverick realized he’d left his brother behind, he’d fought everyone to march back and get him. That’s when his soul got sucked out by the stinking dirt of Afghanistan. Part of him was still back there. A big part.
Taylor coughed to shake the rolling memory off. He’d wrestled Maverick screaming and kicking to the ground when they brought Darrell’s body back to base camp two days later. Maverick fought damned hard for one last look, but Taylor wouldn’t allow it. No way. No man should have to see his broth
er like that.
While Maverick cursed and bellowed, screamed, bucked and fought all comers, Taylor held on. Didn’t let him break away. Not once. He held Maverick fast and tight because that’s what a brother did. They never gave up. And they cried. God Almighty, how they cried.
And Luke thought he knew what happened over there? Taylor’s fist curled to knock that notion out of his fat head.
“Think about it,” Luke said. “I’ve watched her shrivel into a distorted excuse for a human being for fifteen years. I used to push her high on the rope swing in our backyard, and she’d squeal for me to push her higher, and I would do that because I was her brother. I would do anything for my sister. I promised I’d always keep her safe.”
He wiped his eyes. “Please think about it, Taylor. My father wept every day for his little girls, because they couldn’t protect themselves, and he couldn’t save when they needed him most. Mary was no more than fifteen when it happened. She had her whole life ahead of her. She couldn’t fight back, and in the end, she couldn’t endure living. Do you honestly think I’m afraid what the courts will do to me? How could prison be any worse than what I’ve already lived through?”
Taylor still glared. Somehow Gracie’s hand was back on his forearm. She kept trying to calm him, but his heart was too full. He had no answer for the cruelty of men. Never did, even when his father visited it on him.
Luke kept trying, too. “I’m sorry I shot you. I shouldn’t have done that, and I would very much like to make it up to you. I’ll do anything you ask.”
Taylor grunted. “Except let me go.”
“Yes. Except let you go, but you can kill me then if it will make you happy. For my part, I will have done what I’ve set out to do. My wife will be sad, but Mary will be at peace. It’s time the circle of war ends. If it must cost my life, so be it. You’ve suffered enough.”
Taylor Page 10