Chasing The Dead (An Alex Stone Thriller)

by Joel Goldman

  “I don’t know. I’ve been so busy with this case, I haven’t had a chance to get over there, but I’m going to stop by tonight.”

  Kalena put her hand on Alex’s wrist. “Please give them my sympathies.”

  “I’ll do that. Anyway, about the file. Robin’s interim replacement is a woman from the St. Louis PD’s office named Meg Adler. She found the file on Robin’s desk yesterday. My name was on a Post-it note stuck to the file, so Meg assumed Robin wanted me to handle the case. That’s all I know.”

  “Hmm. That’s so odd.”

  “Why? Is it that big of a deal?”

  “Depends on how you look at it. Whether you got the file yesterday or today doesn’t impact the case. But how you got the file might be.”

  “Why?”

  “Because my boss’ policy is to wait until the initial appearance to produce this file, and because this is my case, I’m the one who would produce it. You know Tommy Bradshaw and what a stickler he is for stuff like this.”

  “Yeah. He was like that when we were in law school together. Which means someone in your office didn’t follow your policy or someone outside your office sent the file to Robin Norris.”

  “If it came from my office, whoever did it could lose their job. My boss has fired people for less. I have to tell him what happened, and when I do he’ll turn the office inside and out to find whoever leaked it.”

  “Really? Why? You said my getting the file early won’t impact the case.”

  “That’s not why he’ll turn it into an inquisition. The guy is paranoid about leaks, worse than the White House. And the only thing that will drive him crazier is if someone outside the office did it, because whoever did that is sticking his nose where it doesn’t belong. So, yeah, it’s a very big deal.”

  “But as long as it doesn’t impact the case, how about sending me the standard discovery before the grand jury indicts my client?”

  Kalena smiled and shook her head. “Then I’d be the one looking for a job. Besides, I won’t have all that stuff before the grand jury convenes. We’re still working the case up, and I’ll save you the trouble of asking me to reduce the charges to a misdemeanor. You’re not that stupid and I’m not that easy, especially when the death penalty is in play.”

  That was the response Alex expected unless Kalena was getting pressure to put the case on a fast track to a plea bargain, her response making it clear that she wasn’t.

  “Never hurts to ask. Can you at least tell me if the victim has been identified?” Kalena hesitated. “C’mon. Don’t make me wait for the grand jury for that information. You’re going to release her identity to the press anyway.”

  “We’re not quite there yet, but I’ll give you a call as soon as I can.”

  “Fair enough,” Alex said. She had gathered her things and begun to walk away when she stopped and turned back toward Kalena. “By the way, who else in your office had access to the file?”

  “Everyone,” Kalena said.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  ALEX WENT HOME AND CHANGED into faded jeans, a long-sleeved navy polo, and boots. She played fetch with Quincy in the backyard using one of the many tennis balls he’d stashed around the house and yard, waiting for him to tire while she thought about Jared’s case.

  When she met him at the jail, she didn’t ask him to tell her his version of what happened. She was more interested in getting a sense of him and beginning the process of building a rapport. The more he liked, trusted, and believed in her, the more likely he’d be to tell her the truth. She was under no illusion that he’d ever tell her the entire truth. Few, if any, of her clients did that. The most she hoped for was that he’d tell her enough of the truth that she could build a defense. And the more she knew about the case when she had that conversation with Jared, the more she could tell when he was lying.

  Rossi’s investigative report and the prosecutor’s complaint gave her the outlines of the state’s case. It would be a while before she got any discovery from Kalena Greene and before Grace Canfield tracked down Jared’s army buddies or anyone else who might know something useful. That left the crime scene.

  The courtroom was Alex’s favorite place, but the crime scene, alive with smells, colors, and textures and speaking a sign language peculiar to the horror it had witnessed, was a close second. The challenge was figuring out what the scene was trying to say.

  She didn’t have the police photographs, the forensic report, or the physical evidence taken from the scene or Jared’s confession. And that was fine with her. She wanted to see the scene through her eyes first. There would be other versions told by people with an agenda, but the crime scene didn’t have an agenda. Though bloodstained, it was pure.

  She’d driven by the scene countless times, the grassy, overgrown stretch of ground flitting past in her peripheral vision. It was flanked by I-435 on the west, Truman Road on the north, and Twenty-Third on the south. Jackson County had two courthouses, one downtown and another in Independence, Missouri, which bordered Kansas City’s easternmost edge. She regularly used both Truman Road and Twenty-Third to get to that courthouse, never thinking to detour onto the winding side streets that led to where the murder had occurred.

  She exited from I-435 onto Truman Road, passing a porn shop called Erotic City. Its sign towered above the store’s roofline, enticing customers with the promise of literature, films, books, playthings, and videos. Once when she and Bonnie were about to pass the store, Bonnie made her stop, claiming she couldn’t live another day without knowing the difference between pornographic literature and pornographic books. She discovered that the difference was in the price and walked out with a few delightful playthings.

  According to Rossi’s report, the police had entered the area from the north. Alex did the same, thinking to retrace Rossi’s steps. The north end was narrow and studded with stunted trees, their limbs bent and bare, and clusters of runaway weeds that tugged at her jeans as she strode past. The ground was riddled with hidden rocks and cracks in the earth that could snag a careless ankle and twist an unguarded knee.

  The area opened up as she approached the center, which was flat and grassy, with few of the hazards of the north end, making it an inviting place to pitch a tent. The southern end was tapered like the north, with woods so thick she couldn’t see Twenty-Third Street.

  A creek running north and south cut through the area at an angle. She was on the east side. There was another hundred yards of grass and scrub on the west side of the creek, with the interstate just beyond.

  Rossi’s report described a campsite with a number of tents. Now there was only one, set deep in the shadow of a rock wall carved out of what was once a bluff marking the eastern border of the unofficial campground. Murder was bad for property values, even in a homeless encampment, Alex thought. Or maybe it wasn’t the murder. Maybe it was the scrutiny that came with the murder. Either way, the campgrounds had been abandoned save the one tent. Grace would have a hard time running down anyone who had been there that night.

  Rossi’s diagram of the scene put Jared’s tent near the midpoint between Truman Road and Twenty-Third Street. She had no trouble finding his campsite. The grass was still beaten down and faded from where the tent had been. And it was the only vacant site with crime scene tape ground into the turf by an anonymous boot.

  She made her way to the lone remaining tent, stopping when she was within twenty feet. The tent flap was half-open and she could hear someone stirring inside.

  “Hello in the tent,” she called out.

  There was no reply.

  “Anybody home?”

  Silence, then a raspy, smoke-addled voice answered. “Who gives a shit?”

  Alex bit her lip, trying not to laugh. “I do. My name is Alex Stone.”

  “Good for you. Go away.”

  “I’d rather talk to you first.”

  “And I’d rather be the queen of England, so it looks like we’re both gonna be disappointed.”

  “No rea
son for both of us to be disappointed. All I want is to talk to you. That’s a hell of a lot easier than you giving up all of this to marry Prince Charles. And I’ve got twenty dollars for you if that will help.”

  A burst of lung-busting coughing exploded inside the tent, after which a short, skinny woman wearing sweatpants cinched around her bony hips and a grease-stained yellow T-shirt stepped into the sun. Her gray hair was stringy and tangled and her eyes were bloodshot. She opened her mouth, sucking in air like it was hard labor, running her tongue where her teeth had been and sticking out a scrawny hand.

  “Like the man says, show me the money.”

  Alex approached, catching a whiff of the woman’s stench, a sour, curdled odor like garbage left to rot in the sun.

  “C’mon, now,” the woman said, snapping her fingers, “I ain’t got all day.”

  Alex held out a twenty-dollar bill and the woman grabbed it in a flash.

  “Were you here the other night when they found that woman’s body in the creek?”

  “You a cop?”

  “No. I’m a lawyer. I represent Jared Bell. The police arrested him for murdering that woman.”

  “Poor Joanie,” the woman said, fishing a cigarette from her T-shirt pocket. “Got a light?”

  Alex caught her breath at the mention of the victim’s name. “Sorry, I don’t. You said her name was Joanie.”

  The woman looked at her, squinting. “You deaf?”

  Alex had represented enough homeless people to know how unpredictable they could be, whether because of mental illness or substance abuse or both. She didn’t want to antagonize the woman, so she kept her tone even and neutral.

  “No.”

  “So why you askin’ me was her name Joanie when I just got done sayin’ ‘poor Joanie’?”

  “I’m sorry.”

  The woman dug into her sweatpants, pulling out a lighter. She put the flame to her cigarette and drew long and deep, hacking and sputtering as she spoke.

  “You’re so sorry about everything and none of it’s got anythin’ to do with you.”

  Alex nodded. “You’re right. Let’s start over. I’m Alex Stone. Who are you?”

  “Gladys Knight. The Pips are around her somewhere.”

  “Nice to meet you, Gladys. Tell me about Joanie. What was her last name?” Alex asked, happy to play along.

  “How the hell should I know? Last names are the last thing anybody around here cares about.”

  “Was Joanie staying in one of the tents that were here the night she was killed?”

  The woman’s cigarette had burned down to her fingers. She flicked it onto the ground. “You think I keep track of who comes and goes?”

  “I think you haven’t survived this long without paying attention to what’s going on around you.”

  The woman squinted at her. “True that, and so’s stayin’ out of what don’t concern me. And that goes double for you and Joanie and that no good, cocksucking, murderin’ Jared whatever the hell his last name is.”

  Alex narrowed her eyes, studying the woman, anxious to find out whether her accusation was based on Jared having been arrested or whether she knew something more. She pulled out another twenty-dollar bill.

  “Even if it doesn’t concern you, I’d sure like to know why you think my client is a murderer.”

  The woman snatched the twenty, wadding it up in the palm of her hand with the first one.

  “Wouldn’t you, now?” she said, grinning.

  Alex forced a half smile. “Yes, I would.”

  “Well, I’ll tell you what I told the cops. Go to hell and don’t call me when you get there.”

  She turned and disappeared into her tent, zipping the flap closed.

  Alex waited a few minutes to see if the woman would return, calling to her but giving up when there was no response, uncertain whether the woman knew anything or had just played her for forty bucks. Rossi’s report made no mention of witnesses who had seen or heard anything, giving credence to the woman’s claim that she had told him nothing. Convinced that she wouldn’t get any further, she walked to the creek to see where Joanie’s body had been found, glad to at least have a first name for the victim, hoping the woman hadn’t scammed her about that as well.

  She reached the creek bank, looked down, and nearly fell in when she saw a young girl, no more than ten, with alabaster skin and long, corn-silk hair lying faceup, eyes closed, her head resting in the soft mud, her legs stretched out in the water, her arms spread like wings.

  “Oh, my God!” Alex cried, her hand on her chest, terrified she’d found another murder victim.

  The girl’s eyes popped open. Seeing Alex staring down at her, she scrambled to her feet and dashed through the water and up the other bank before Alex could say another word. Without uttering a sound or looking back, the girl ran alongside the creek, vanishing into the trees at the south end. All Alex could do was watch her go.

  Alex bent over, hands on her knees, and took a series of deep breaths until her heart stopped pounding. Who was the little girl? Was she playing a harmless game or was she reenacting the murder scene, and if she was, how could she have known the details and what could have possessed her to do such a thing? Alex had no answers to any of her questions.

  She turned back toward where Jared’s tent had been. The woman had come out of her tent again but went back inside as soon as Alex saw her. Hands on her hips, Alex did a slow turn, taking in the grounds and seeing a sign that had been planted in the ground, christening the area as Liberty Park. Alex thought about that name, imagining what it was like to live and die in this place, and decided that Janis Joplin had been right when she sang Me and Bobby McGee. Freedom was just another word for nothing left to lose.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  ALEX WOULD HAVE PREFERRED to spend more time at the scene, walking through the crime scene the way Rossi had laid it out, looking for anything that might contradict his report, but the little girl changed all that. She was getting away and the scene wasn’t going anywhere.

  Unless the girl was a runaway, she had to live close by. Alex couldn’t see any houses from where she stood, but she knew there weren’t any on Truman Road or Twenty-Third Street. And Alex doubted the child had crossed eight lanes of interstate highway to get to the creek. That meant the child most likely lived to the east, somewhere on the other side of the cliff.

  Alex ran for her car, gambling that the child would head for home rather than remain in the woods at the south end of Liberty Park. If she was right, she had a chance of finding the girl before she could hide behind a locked door and parents who would shield her from the lawyer for an accused murderer.

  Back in her car, Alex followed the street where she’d parked up a hill and into an unfamiliar neighborhood. The streets were narrow, winding bands of asphalt, crumbling along the edges, bordered by drainage ditches thick with overgrown grass and weeds. She had to be quick without hurrying or risk losing control of her car on the serpentine roads.

  Houses and trailers were scattered haphazardly along the streets, some bunched together, others standing alone, many of them so old and run-down that a stiff wind would blow them away. Pit bulls and Dobermans patrolled their turf, snarling and barking when she passed by. Signs saying Keep Out and Beware of Dog were plentiful enough to convince any door-to-door salesman—or lawyer—to try her luck elsewhere.

  No one was working in their yard or sitting at a window or on their front porch. No children were playing on swing sets or in the street. There was no one at all, which wasn’t unusual on a weekday afternoon, when adults were likely at work and children in school, but there was something about the neighborhood that felt alone or abandoned. Maybe it was the dilapidated, neglected conditions, or maybe it was something missing in the lives of the people who lived there. Whatever the cause, it gave her a prickly uneasiness, making her anxious to find the little girl, talk to her, and get out of there.

  Several times she thought she caught a glimpse of the girl da
rting among the trees, her long blond hair matted against her neck. But when she slowed for a closer look, no one was there, making Alex wonder if what she’d seen was just the sun reflecting off the leaves rustling in the breeze, the elusive images tantalizing enough for her to keep searching.

  She wound her way through the neighborhood again and again before catching a woman parking a white Chevy Impala in a driveway she’d passed twice before. The car was missing its hubcaps and a rear brake light. A sheet of plastic was duct-taped over the missing passenger window on the driver’s side, and the left quarter panel was rusted out above the wheel well. The driveway belonged to a saltbox house with a roof that sagged in the middle and siding that was peeling in places and fading in others. A storage shed sat at the back of the driveway, its door padlocked with a heavy chain.

  Alex stopped in front of the house, rolling her window down and calling to the woman when she got out of her car.

  “Excuse me, ma’am.”

  The woman had copper-red hair courtesy of a bad dye job and enough makeup for a drag queen, her glittering green eye shadow visible at a distance. She wore jeans that were too tight for the heft she carried and an even tighter shirt stretched over mountainous breasts subdivided by the strap of the purse slung between them.

  “Yeah,” the woman said.

  Alex got out of her car and crossed the yard to the driveway, glad that there was no dog in sight.

  “I’m looking for a little girl, probably about ten. She’s wearing shorts and a T-shirt and has long blond hair.”

  The woman blinked, glancing over her shoulder at the thicket of trees behind her. It was enough to make Alex think the woman not only knew the child but was also looking for her.

  “She your kid?” the woman asked, the corners of her mouth twitching.

  “No.”

  “Relative of yours?”

  “No.”

  “You even know her name?”

  “I don’t,” Alex said, not liking the way the conversation was going.

  “What makes you think she lives around here?”