The Harry Starke Series Books 4 -6: The Harry Starke Series Boxed Set 2 (The Harry Starke Novels - The Boxed Sets)

by Blair Howard

  Harry Starke

  Boxed Set

  Books 4, 5, 6

  By

  Blair Howard

  Contents

  Checkmate

  Gone

  Family Matters

  Checkmate

  A Harry Starke Novel

  By

  Blair Howard

  Chapter 1

  “So, that’s ten dollars you owe me,” he said as he plucked his ball from the sixth green’s hole.

  “Yeah, Dad. I know. I can count,” I said. “You birdied the third hole and this one.” I looked at the other two members of our foursome, Judge Henry Strange and ADA Lawrence “Larry” Spruce. They were both grinning at me. They knew my father well.

  How the hell he gets anyone to play with him, I have no clue. He’s a shark. He reluctantly admits to a five handicap, but often plays scratch golf. In another life he probably could have turned pro. He has a caustic sense of humor, loves to play mind games, and gives not an inch. Even so, I love to play with him.

  August Starke, my father, is something of a celebrity, and so, I suppose, am I, having become one only lately, and not by choice. He’s a lawyer, and a very successful one, with an estimated net worth of close to $200 million. With silver hair and moustache, he cuts an imposing figure even at sixty-six. He’s a big man, an inch taller than me, and since he works out every other morning he’s sickeningly healthy, and carries not a pound of extra fat. He’s also the most competitive man I’ve ever met, both in the courtroom and on the golf course. He takes more delight in winning ten bucks on the greens than he does in winning a multi-million-dollar class action.

  It was Thursday morning, a little after nine o’clock, and the judge and I were playing him and Larry Spruce. The stakes were a whopping twenty-five dollars on the game, with five-dollar birdies. So now I owed the old man an extra ten, and he was needling me about it, and it was working. It always did.

  We moved to the next tee. Having birdied the last hole, the Old Man—he hates to be called that—had the honor, which meant he was first to play. The seventh, a dead straight par five, stretched away some 558 yards to an elevated, postage-stamp-sized green. The fairway was narrow, with a forced carry off the tee of some 120 yards, and bounded by heavy rough on both sides and a river off to the right. It was a daunting hole that demanded an accurate drive to a less than generous landing area, a long straight second, and an even more accurate approach shot. A hook off the tee would put me in the rough to the right, if not the river; a slice, and I’d spend the rest of the day looking for my ball in knee-high grass.

  The foursome in front of us was almost at the green, so we were clear to go.

  For me, with an iffy nine handicap, the seventh was always a safe three iron off the tee. For the Old Man…. Well, I watched as he dragged the big dog out of his bag and proceeded to hammer the ball 290 yards straight down the center of the fairway, leaving himself with an easy five iron and a wedge into the green. He watched it settle onto the short grass, then turned and gifted me with one of his triumphant grins.

  Oh my God. Give me a break, please.

  Larry, not a little intimidated by his partner’s stunning shot, stood looking down at the three clubs he’d carried from the cart to the tee. He shook his head, grabbed his three iron, hit it fat, and barely cleared the forced carry. He’d just turned a tough par five into an even tougher par six.

  I set the ball low on the tee, and addressed it with my three iron. On a good day I could hit the club 200, maybe 210 yards. Today, with the Old Man leaning casually on his driver, smiling, watching… well, you get the idea.

  “Now, son. No guts, no birdies. Be a man. Put that thing back in the bag and hit the ball with a proper club.”

  “Screw you, Dad. Play your mind games on somebody else.” I swung, nailed it right on the sweet spot, and watched the ball start out low then gather altitude as the spin lifted it over the carry and on down the fairway a good 225 yards, leaving me with a solid five iron and then an eight iron to the flag—so I hoped. It was one of my best shots, but not quite good enough.

  Judge Strange was teeing his ball when we heard a shout.

  “Hey Harry! Over here!” It was Greg Holloway. He was standing by his cart on the right side of the seventh green, in the rough close to the river’s edge, waving both arms over his head. I figured he must have put his ball in the water. I waved back, then turned to watch the judge make his shot.

  “Harry! Harry Starke!”

  What the hell? I turned again. He was still waving his arms.

  “C’mere, Harry. Now. We’ve got a body in the water!”

  I turned to the others. “Did he say ‘body?’”

  “I think he did, “August said. “Better go take a look, Harry.”

  We ran to the carts, threw our clubs into the bags, and raced off down the fairway toward the still-waving Greg Holloway.

  “Over there.” He pointed as he ran toward the water’s edge.

  “Hey. Whoa,” I yelled. “Don’t go down there, Greg. Stay away. Don’t disturb anything.”

  The woman was just a few feet from the riverbank, lying on her back in six inches of water. She looked peaceful, but there was no doubt about it: she was dead.

  At first glance she appeared to be in her mid-twenties. She was wearing dark blue shorts and a white, long-sleeve shirt over a black bra, and a wrist watch—no shoes. From where I was standing, there didn’t look to be a mark on her. No cuts or bruises. Her skin, a dirty gray color, told a story all its own. Oh my, what a way to go…. Hang on. I think I know her.

  I didn’t to go down and check. I wanted to, but if it was a crime scene, I couldn’t disturb it. If not, there was nothing I could do for her anyway, and her identity could wait.

  I sighed, shook my head, turned, waved the others away, then walked back to the cart, grabbed my phone, and called Kate. She answered immediately, and she wasn’t happy. In fact, she sounded… angry.

  Kate Gazzara, my one-time partner at the Chattanooga PD, is now a lieutenant in the Major Crimes Unit.

  Me? I’m an ex-cop turned private investigator. I’ve known Kate for more than sixteen years, since she was a rookie. I still work with her now and then, mostly as an unpaid consultant, and much to her superiors’ aggravation. They’d like to put a stop to it, but it’s a match that works. And we’ve closed some heavy cases together, so they grudgingly sanction our collaboration.

  She arrived in an unmarked police cruiser some twenty minutes later with her partner Sergeant Lonnie Guest in tow. He and I have also had our moments. We were at the police academy together. When we graduated, I moved onward and upward, but Lonnie didn’t, and he holds a grudge about it to this day, though that grudge has eased somewhat over the last year. I’ve underestimated him in the past because he comes off as a fat, lazy slob, but I think that’s a persona he purposely cultivates. It’s the perpetual shit-eating grin he wears that bothers me most.

  Kate, as usual, looked stunning: almost six feet tall, with a slender figure, dirty blonde hair tied in a ponytail, huge hazel eyes and a high forehead. Dressed for the weather, she had on a pair of baggy, lightweight tan pants, a white, short-sleeve blouse, a Glock 26 in a holster on her right hip, and her gold badge on her left. Lonnie, for some strange reason, was in uniform, and he had a sheepish look about him.

  “Hey, Kate, Lonnie,” I said as they walked toward me through the long grass.

  Kate strode right past me to
the edge of the embankment “What do you have?”

  Whew! No hi, hello, kiss my ass, nothing. “Woman,” I said. “Girl, maybe. I haven’t been down there, but she’s dead, I’m sure. No sign of injuries, at least from up here. I think I might know her. Not much else to tell. What the hell’s up with you?”

  “Not a goddamn thing a week on the beach away from this mess wouldn’t cure,” she said, scrambling down the bank and into the water. “I’m tired, Harry. I’m bone tired, and I hope to hell this is nothing more than an accident. I don’t need another homicide. I have four to deal with already. And this.” She waved her hand at Lonnie. “He goes and gets himself put back in uniform for a month. Just when I needed him most. Stupid son of a bitch.” She bent down and gently touched the girl’s neck, then stepped away and clambered back up the bank.

  “Yeah, she’s dead. I called Doc Sheddon right after you called me. He’s on his way. Shouldn’t be more than a minute or two. I also called CSI, so they should be here soon too.”

  She glared at Lonnie, then at me. “Ask him,” she said. “Go on. Ask him.”

  I looked at Lonnie, my eyebrows raised. He grinned sheepishly, and shrugged.

  “I… er, was a little rough with one of the rookies.”

  “A little rough. You smacked him upside the ear is what you did. You’re lucky they didn’t fire you, much less put you back in uniform.”

  “Damn it, Kate. I didn’t hit him hard. It was just a swipe. If the captain hadn’t seen me do it…. Besides, it’s only for a month.”

  I smiled. I couldn’t help it. It was typical Lonnie. The proverbial bull in a china shop. Heavy handed, thoughtless, and often reckless.

  “Kate, my ass,” she said. “From now on you’ll call me Lieutenant. Understand?”

  He grinned at her, but he understood. Kate Gazzara has two distinct and separate personas. Most of the time she’s the nice girl that everyone would like to date, but then there’s the tough, no-nonsense, hard-ass cop that nobody dares fool around with. Guess which one it was that day.

  “Hey,” I said. “That looks like the doc.” A golf cart was flying down the fairway at full speed, bumping and pitching at each hill and valley in the rolling terrain. The black CSI unit followed at a much more sedate speed.

  Doc was driving, and having a ball, but he wasn’t alone. His forensic anthropologist, Carol Owens, was hanging on for dear life.

  “Whew. That was fun,” he said after he’d come to a stop, and eased himself out of the cart. Carol stayed put, looking decidedly sick. “Must do that again sometime. Hey everybody. Nice day for it. Well, for us anyway. What have we got?”

  Kate told him as he dragged his black case from the seat of the cart, set it down, and opened it. He looked inside, had second thoughts, walked to the riverbank, put his hands on his hips, and stared down at the body. Carol joined him, saying something I couldn’t hear. He nodded and walked back to the cart, his head down, muttering under his breath.

  “As I said, nice day for it.” He looked up at me as he sat sideways on the cart seat. “You find this one, Harry?”

  “No. I was back on the tee. Greg over there was looking for his ball; he found her.”

  Sheddon nodded, took off his shoes and socks, rolled up his pants. “Carol, you stay here. No point in getting your feet wet.” Then he picked his way down the bank and into the water.

  “Whoohoo. It’s cold.”

  He wasn’t down there but a moment or two before he came scrambling back up the bank.

  “Dead!” he declared. “Don’t know how or when, so don’t ask. Water’s cold. That will make it difficult to get an accurate time of death. Won’t be able to do anything till I get her on the table. Sad. She’s a pretty young thing. Can’t be more than twenty-six or seven. Ambulance is on its way. I’ve gotta go; things to do; people to see. Tomorrow morning, Kate. Nine o’clock. Don’t be late. See ya, Harry. You, too August, Larry. Hey Henry. Sorry. I didn’t see you. You okay? Good, good. I’m outta here. C’mon, Carol. Bye.”

  He was always the same. He kind of reminded me of the White Rabbit…. No, he was more Bilbo Baggins. He was always in a hurry; never stopped talking even to take a breath. He flung his big bag onto the seat, climbed in, and then they were gone, the golf cart bumping and jumping away toward the clubhouse.

  “Damn it!” Kate whispered, so low I could barely hear her. “That’s all I need, a wasted morning at the Forensic Center. No. Hell no. It’s not going to happen.” She looked at Lonnie, shook her head. If looks could kill, Lonnie would have been no more than dust on the wind.

  She looked at me. “Harry….”

  “Oh no. No, no, no. I’m busy, too. I can’t spare the time.”

  “Bullshit. You’re out here fooling around with…. Oh, sorry Judge, Larry, Mr. Starke.” It was like she’d just noticed them. “Well, fooling around out here abusing little white balls. It wouldn’t hurt you to do me a favor. I’ll fix it.”

  And she did. Right then and there. She called her boss, Chief Johnston. I watched as she argued; I watched as her face grew redder and redder. The chief was not in favor of the idea. But finally she turned to me and said, “Nine o’clock tomorrow morning. Don’t be late, or Johnston will have my guts. Now, I need lunch, and you’re buying. Here at the club, or somewhere else? You name it.”

  Before I could answer, the ambulance came over the rise, heading toward us. It took less than ten minutes for them to get her out of the water and into the vehicle.

  Kate had a few words with the CSI team while I took a look at the body, and found out that I was right. I did know her. Doc was wrong about her age. Angela Hartwell was twenty-nine, and she would no longer grace the bar at the club, or anywhere else.

  What the hell happened to her?

  Yes, I sure as hell would attend the autopsy tomorrow. I needed to know.

  We all stood and watched as the ambulance slowly carried her away. There was a crowd of folks watching: our little group and Greg’s, club members at the top of the rise, even a couple of greenkeepers seated on their mowers.

  “I guess you guys will have to play on without me,” I said, but they didn’t. Their mood was as somber as mine. We turned the carts around and headed back to the clubhouse, Kate and Lonnie following in the unmarked police car.

  “Let’s go somewhere quiet for lunch,” I said to Kate as I handed the cart and my clubs over to the attendant. “It’s a zoo in there. How about Henry’s on Highway Fifty-Eight?”

  “Yeah. That’ll do. Lonnie, you take the car back to the station. I’ll see you later.”

  He wasn’t happy, but he did as he was told.

  Chapter 2

  If there’s anything I hate worse than attending an autopsy, I can’t think what it is. Over the years, I‘ve seen some god-awful things in Doc Sheddon’s house of horrors. The bodies of young kids, abused sexually and physically or beaten to death, victims of arson, drive-by shootings, stabbings, you name it. Teenagers dead before their time….

  There was one who’d been shot in the gut at close range with a 20-guage shotgun. The hospital had tried to patch him up, but his innards had been turned to mush. He was eighteen years old.

  There was another who’d been shot with a .45 while lying on his back on the floor. He’d tried to ward off the shot with his feet; the big slug had gone through one of them and hit him in the face just the same. You can imagine what that must have looked like. The slug, deformed by its passage through shoe leather, flesh, and bone, had exploded his head like a watermelon. I try to stay away from Doc Sheddon’s lair, if I possibly can.

  I run a successful private investigation agency—yes, I’m a PI—with offices on Georgia not far from the courts and law offices in downtown Chattanooga. From there, it’s a drive of maybe ten minutes to the Forensic Center on Amnicola, less if the traffic is light. I was still late that Friday morning—only by a couple of minutes, but it was enough. Doc Sheddon wasn’t in the best of moods. Overnight, the street gangs had sent him another ki
d. This one had been sitting in front of the TV when a bullet came through the wall and hit her in the throat. She’d bled to death in minutes. She was nine years old.

  “Dammit, Harry. I said nine o’clock. It’s now….” He consulted the clock on the wall. “Well, it’s five after.” He shook his head, heaved himself to his feet, swallowed the last of his coffee, and shambled out from behind his desk.

  “I’m gonna quit this damn job one of these days. I sure as hell am.” He adjusted the Glock on his hip. I always wondered why a medical examiner needed to go armed, but I guess that was just Doc. I’d always thought him a little paranoid. Hell, the first thing he did whenever he rode with me in my car, even before he put on his seat belt, was lock the door.

  “Let’s go take a look at her,” he said, heading for the door. “You want coffee before we go in?”

  I declined. He nodded, pointed to an empty locker, and then began to dress for the job. Scrub suit, vinyl apron, surgical hat, gloves, mask, eye protection, rubber boots. I did the same. By the time I was ready, he was already at the table, talking into the overhead microphone.

  And there she was, all that remained of the once-vivacious Angela Hartwell.

  Carol had already removed the body bag, the plastic wrap, and Angela’s clothes, which were bagged and ready to be sent to the lab. She’d also washed the body, taken samples of hair from her scalp, face, eyebrows, etc.—her legs and the rest of her were clean shaven—and she’d swabbed all the orifices. The samples were labeled and stored. Finally, Carol had X-rayed her from head to toe. Angela Hartwell was now ready for the ultimate degradation.

  In the absence of a morgue assistant (there was no money for one in the budget), Carol stood ready to assist the good doctor.

  Once again, I was stuck by the incongruity of it all, how a living, breathing, human being could suddenly be reduced to little more than a slab of meat. Oh, the body still looks human, but somehow… well, it loses its identity, its… reality, I suppose.