by Jan Coffey
The detective paused at seeing Dan Archer walk into the room, cup of coffee in hand. The captain nodded and leaned against a wall.
“Keep going, Sal,” the Chief ordered.
“Cherie sure had a bag of tricks. She would take her time reeling them in. She would run this ‘big sister, little sister’ rap on them. She wasn’t going to drag them down to Billy the first night and have him jump them. She was feeling the kid out first and gaining her trust, then she made her move.”
The detective who had posed as a cab driver during the raid continued. “Now if she hinted at what she wanted and the girl balked, then she’d back off and come back with it again after a couple of months. Working with the Massachusetts state police, we’ve been following her from Fall River to New Bedford and back. There were plenty of fish in the pond.”
“Corruption of minors. Child prostitution. Interstate trafficking. Conspiracy.” The Chief had a hard time not rubbing his hands together with satisfaction. “How far back do her connections go with the Hamilton boy?”
Sally glanced at Archer and continued. “As far as we can tell, two years. They must have been hanging in the same bars. With little money to pay for her expensive habits, it was a connection made in heaven for her. She was a waitress in town before, but she hasn’t worked anywhere since two years ago…the first summer that Hamilton started hanging out in Newport.”
“Have you checked the town where he goes to school—New Haven, wasn’t it?—for anything similar?”
“That’s in the works,” the other detective put in.
“You do have him nailed this time, don’t you?”
“We do.” Sally looked again at Archer. “Cherie was also the clean-up crew. But last night, we got in before she could get rid of anything.”
Calvin frowned. “But not before the girl was assaulted.”
There was an uncomfortable silence. Archer spoke up. “They both gave our people the slip. We caught up with them when Hamilton was on his way out of the motel lot.”
The Chief nodded. “Will the girl talk to us?”
Sally jumped in. “She will. Her mother is here, and the girl has already given us a statement. She is willing to testify exactly what he did to her…what he said to her. She is not too happy with Cherie, and she knows Cherie was hitting on a couple of her friends. With this one willing, I think we might find a few girls to come forward now. We have him, Chief.”
David Calvin congratulated them, and they all began filing out of his office. He turned to Archer.
“Sarah Rand wasn’t too far off the mark, six months ago.”
“No, she wasn’t,” Archer admitted, crumpling the empty coffee cup and tossing it into his superior’s trash can.
“Too bad she’s not around for us to make a public apology…to her and her client.”
“Yeah.” Archer headed out of the office. “Too bad.”
~~~~
“This might just be a set up,” Sarah cautioned as the Range Rover left the highway. The prison loomed on the north side of the interstate. “He could simply be making this whole thing up.”
“I have a very legit reason for talking to this guy. I’m a TV producer. We are constantly looking for fresh material for our shows. Jake Gantley has been corresponding with our writers for a while. It’s only natural for me to meet with this guy in person.” Owen placed his hand on her knee, trying to comfort her. “Even the warden bought my story.”
“Well, I don’t.” She frowned, looking straight ahead. “Why is it that all these prison officials are so friendly to you? Here, you call in and an hour later you can meet with the guy. Something is not right.”
“That’s the entertainment business for you.” He brought her hand to his lips—a tender gesture that pleased her more than he knew. “People usually like us or hate us. They are agreeable or totally ornery. Now, if I was calling the local police station and wanted a tour of their offices, you can bet I’d be standing in line for weeks.”
Sarah knew why, too, having seen some episodes of Owen’s shows. Very realistic and not very flattering to the people running the police departments depicted.
“What are you going to do when you get there? He’ll know he’s rattled your cage, and that’s why you’re here.”
“I am just going in to listen. If he really knows who killed Hal, which means he knows who was trying to kill you…” He gave her a glance. “That’s worth whatever price he puts on the information.”
“I wish I could come inside with you.”
“No chance of that, love,” he said tenderly. “I’ll park the car in the most public lot I can find near the prison. I want you to sit behind the wheel. Lock the doors. Don’t think twice about driving away if you feel threatened at all.”
Sarah nodded. She had wanted to come along, not because of any fear of being left alone in his apartment. She was terrified of something happening to Owen. He pulled into a commuter lot across from the gate leading into the ACI.
“Do you have something to read?”
She backhanded him on his leg. “Who proclaimed you the adult here?”
He leaned over and took her mouth in a lingering kiss. “Much better. Temper and passion in one irresistible adult.”
Sarah was still flustered as she watched him cross the parking lot. Vanity had never been a strong suit with her. But Owen’s words had touched a tender spot in her heart.
And that was exactly why she was so scared, Sarah thought, as she watched him disappear from her view. Everything about him—from the way he’d treated her the first moment they’d met to their unleashed passion this morning—affected her more than she’d ever thought possible.
Sarah learned as a child that life wasn’t fair. ‘Happily ever after’ was the stuff of fairy tales. People rarely spoke the truth, and people were gunning for her, pure and simple. That was why she was waiting for the other shoe to drop, for the ticking bomb to explode this perverse fantasy that seemed so much like happiness. But the thought of pushing Owen away from her, out of harm’s way…
Sarah stared at his broad back disappear through the prison gate, and slid over behind the wheel.
Chapter 20
Owen figured he’d met them all in his time.
As a kid on the streets of Philadelphia, he’d seen them. Hell, been one of them. At boarding school, he’d seen them, too. A higher class of punks, to be sure, but punks nonetheless. More money just meant more expensive vices.
So many of them had the same things in common. Each one thought he was the center of the universe. Each one thought he was above the rules and standards and laws that kept mere mortals from enjoying the pleasures that were ‘rightfully’ theirs.
Some of those punks were dead, now. Some were sitting in board rooms of Fortune 500 companies. Some were, no doubt, in prison.
Sarah had thought she needed to warn him about the convict on their drive to the prison. She had given him a summary of what she’d read in his letters—of the inmate’s early start in a life of crime and his continuous involvement, despite his years of incarceration. Owen had listened, but figured he knew this guy like a book.
But after meeting Jake Gantley in person, he knew he’d been wrong.
Owen had no reason to believe or disbelieve the man’s story of his criminal activities. But he hadn’t been prepared for the strength of Jake’s personality. This was no punk. This was a dangerous man.
Despite the austere environment in the visitor’s room, the inmate had greeted Owen from across the divider like a host welcoming an honored guest to a dinner party. Prison clothes notwithstanding, the man looked clean, trim, and polished. His manners were refined, almost cultured at first glance. His manner of speaking was cool, intelligent, and articulate as he explained to Owen some of the problems with crime stories and the motivational problems of current TV characters—including Owen’s own character, John McKee.
Owen had tried to remain pleasant and casual, listening to what was being said without show
ing any hint of impatience. He didn’t want to reveal the main reason for this visit. But the hour he’d requested was running short, and Jake had yet to bring up the topic.
“I have done some script-writing myself,” the inmate said casually. “With so much time on my hands here, I’ve completed three correspondence courses on writing in this past year, alone.”
“That’s great.” Owen tried to maintain his level of interest under the watchful gaze of the guard standing just out of earshot near the door.
“In my letters, I mentioned something about the transcripts I’ve been putting together.” Jake’s gray eyes squinted, obviously measuring Owen’s response. “Of course, before I can share any of what I have to offer, an agreement must be reached, and perhaps a contract drawn up.”
“Sure, why don’t you send a proposal to my production office. If it’s something that might interest our team of writers, the lawyers will contact you.”
Owen’s pro forma answer had the desired affect. Jake’s otherwise smooth expression faltered for a moment.
“I’m well aware of the secret handshakes and family connections that are the foundations of deal-making in your business, Mr. Dean. It’s not much different in my line…my former line of work. But my writing won’t be sitting on any slush pile.”
“Then I’m sorry, I can’t help you.” Owen leaned forward, looking Jake straight in the eye.
“You gave me the impression that you were interested in my material,” Jake said calmly.
“I’m sorry to disappoint you. But I have yet to hear anything that grabs me.”
Gray eyes focused again. “You saw the picture I sent you.”
“From an old movie clip. Even the tabloids won’t be interested in an edited clip that’s been floating around the internet for a couple of years.”
“I met Tori recently,” Jake replied.
“Good for you.” Owen glanced at his watch.
The voice turned low. “She was in Sarah Rand’s apartment.”
“The name doesn’t ring a bell.”
“Then I guess you won’t be interested in knowing what I was doing there. Or who hired me to pay her a visit. Or how I ended up ditching the wrong corpse and letting your new girlfriend continue to walk around without a scratch…for now, anyway.”
Owen sat back in the metal chair, his face businesslike. “Didn’t one of your letters say you’ve been in prison for a while?”
“Never heard of our state’s enlightened furlough program?” Jake flashed him a wide smile. “Most of us can’t sit back and wait for the right producer to come around and pay us a million bucks for our work. A man has to make a living.”
“Is this the script you’re selling?”
“It’s a package deal.”
“What if I said I’m only interested in this part of the package?” Owen replied.
The two men’s gazes collided. The heavy silence was broken by the sound of a heavy metal door banging shut somewhere in the distance.
“If you don’t want to deal, Jake, I can walk out right now.”
Gantley eyed him with a look devoid of expression, but Owen had seen that look before. If they were on the street right now, Jake would cut his heart out with a spoon.
“Last chance. Are you selling?”
“I might be…for the right price.”
Owen had him, now. It was a small victory, but a telling one.
“I’m not interested in any fiction,” he said flatly. “I have an office full of writers who can come up with stories.”
“This is not fiction. And…” Jake’s gaze dropped to the bottom of the glass separator. When he looked up again, he was back in control. “I believe if you knew that there was more than one disgruntled character chasing after your girlfriend, you wouldn’t be so blasé.” The inmate stared at him. “Do I have your attention, Mr. Dean?”
“Back it up with facts,” Owen pressed. “You can be inventing this whole thing based on what you’ve been reading in the papers.”
Jake threw a glance in the direction of the guard. “I was contracted to do a job by a certain individual. When I got there, someone else had beaten me to it. Someone else who was not very bright,” he added as an afterthought. “This someone hadn’t done his homework. This same someone dusted the wrong lady.”
“And how do you know it was the wrong lady?”
“I’m a professional. Details are my life.” Jake flashed him a confident smile. “Those fancy earrings that your girlfriend always wears were the first clue. Actually, they should have been a dead giveaway to the dope horning in on my turf. On top of that, there was that music. You don’t have to be an Einstein to know someone with your girl’s sense of style wouldn’t be into Pearl Jam. And then, there was the airline ticket-stub in the pocket of Tori’s tight little jeans. She did have a nice ass, but her real assets were her—”
“Drop it.” Owen spoke impatiently. “Go on.”
Jake flashed him another smile. “The place was a wreck, like the genius was looking for something, but then half-decided to make it look like a robbery.”
“What did you do?”
“I was hired for a two-step job. You might say, it was a ‘dust and vacuum’ job. Now, if someone else had decided to take care of the first half for me, who was I to complain?”
Jake glanced toward the guard again.
“Time was running short, if you get my meaning. I wanted to get paid.” He shrugged. “I did what any other professional would do in a situation like that. I went around and took the luggage tags off the bag upstairs and mixed in her stuff with your girlfriend’s. Then I did whatever else I could think of in the little time I had left. Hey, the first guy had helped me out by knocking off a girl. Now I was returning the favor by messing up the place so that—at least, up front—the cops would think Sarah Rand was the one who’d gotten snuffed.”
“Were you the one who dragged her to Judge Arnold’s boat?”
“Only parts of her—blood, hair, stuff from the rug. I have plenty of time to read all those crime and detection books. I know what those guys look for and how they collect their evidence. I told you I’m a pro. It’s my job to stay up on things. In fact, one of these days, I should write a book about it, myself.”
“Where is her body now?”
“You don’t want to know.” Jake shook his head with a look of feigned distaste.
“Who contracted you to do the job?”
“Now you are getting to the good stuff.”
“Well?” Owen asked impatiently.
“Let’s start with small stuff and then build up.” Jake now wore the demeanor of one business partner talking to another. “I want you to call this cousin of mine, when you get back to Newport. His name is Frankie O’Neal. He is my collection agency. A good guy. Very decent. A little overweight, but I’m working on that. Trying to improve his image, his self-esteem.”
Owen wrote down the address and phone number on a piece of paper.
“If we’re going to deal, you’re going to have to pay. Twenty grand is a fair price for the small stuff, and that’ll keep me supplied with pencils and pens.”
“I’m not asking you to kill anyone, Jake. You’re only giving me a name.”
Gantley shook his head. “You know, I hate talking money. On the other hand, if you take me up on my proposal and look at my writing, just to see if you could use some of my stories, then I’ll give you a break. But as it stands now, my hands are tied. I have mouths to feed, you know. Well, not really, but it sounds good.”
“When do I get the rest of it?”
Jake glanced around. “Tomorrow. That is, if you send some money Frankie’s way by then. And no checks.”
“How do I know you’re not full of shit?”
“You’re a smart guy, Owen.” The inmate smiled again. “Okay. I’ll give you something for free. I read in the paper today that there is a memorial service tomorrow at noon for the millionaire golden boy, Hal Van Horn. Listen good. The one who
took out the contract on your girlfriend will be there.”
“Half of Newport will be there.”
“Look really close. You know the immediate circle of family and friends. You can’t miss him.”
Owen got up to go, but Jake stopped him.
“I’ll tell you something else. By now, the cops know she is alive.” He gave Owen a long nod. “If their labs are anywhere near as good as I figure, they already know that the blood they found in the apartment and the boat might match, but they don’t belong to Sarah Rand.”
“Thanks for the warning.”
~~~~
He was still on hold.
Trapping the cell phone between his shoulder and his ear, Scott Rosen looked at his watch. He frowned and shifted his weight, then stopped.
The attorney stared through the large windows that separated the four newborn infants from the germs and scum that constituted life outside the hospital nursery. An attendant wearing scrubs pushed a fifth glass crib into the room. The new addition—an eight pound, seven ounce baby girl—was wheeled toward the nursery window.
“It should only be another couple of minutes, Mr. Rosen.” The voice on the phone was polite.
“Thank you.”
Scott looked from the nametag on the glass crib to the wrinkled red face of his daughter. His hand touched the glass. She made an angry face, and the pacifier fell from her pursed lips.
He’d returned home this morning only to find a hurried note from Lucy. It was short and to the point. Her water had broken while he’d been gone. Not wanting to disturb him or his work, she’d simply asked one of their neighbors to take her to the hospital.
By the time he’d gotten to the delivery room, Lucy had already given birth.
Scott’s first instinct was that he should be angry at her for not calling him. That thought had fallen by the wayside pretty quickly. After all, who he was kidding? He had been an insensitive jerk throughout her entire pregnancy. Shit, throughout their entire marriage, for that matter. But she had continued to put up with him.