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

by Blair Howard

  And then there’s Regis Hartwell. I have a feeling…. Hell, who knows? But if he was murdered, that throws a whole different light on Angela’s murder. If he was, they have to be connected. Too much of a coincidence not to be. Oh shit. What the hell have I let myself in for?

  I took a sip of coffee. The cup was empty.

  I went to get another one, and nearly ran into Tim, who was about to knock on my door. He had an address. She’d lived in the Mountain Shadows subdivision off Banks Road. I knew that area. It was where Tom Sattler had lived. I’d solved that case last August. I went back into my office and called Amanda.

  “Hello, Harry. You taking me out tonight?” I swear that woman is a mind reader.

  “Hah, how did you know? I thought we’d go to the club, have a nice dinner, a drink or two, and then we can go back to my place and you can stay over, if you want to.”

  “Dinner sounds good…. Stay over? Let me think about it.” I could hear the smile in her voice. “Okay. We can do that.”

  “Terrific. Look, I have a couple of things to do before I can get free. How about I pick you up at your place around seven, seven thirty?”

  “Seven thirty is good. That will give me time to get home and cleaned up after the six o’clock broadcast.”

  Oh, and does she ever clean up.

  Chapter 4

  I found Angela Hartwell’s house. It was on Misty Mountain Trail, just off Royal Mountain Drive. It was a nice property: two stories with an attached two-car garage on maybe a half an acre, just what you might expect of a successful banker. The place was deserted, which was also what I’d expected. I’d already called Kate and told her I was going to take a look at it—concerned neighbors tend to be overzealous in these upscale subdivisions.

  I parked the Maxima and took a walk around the home. Everything was as it should be. The lawns were mowed, the flowerbeds full and colorful, the bushes neatly trimmed. Angela had cared about her home.

  At the back of the house, I went up the steps onto the deck, took out my set of picks, and opened the back door.

  The door opened into a mud room that gave way to the kitchen, and from there to a spacious living room dominated by a stone fireplace. Past that was a large office, and then the master bedroom and bathroom. There were three more bedrooms and two bathrooms—one with access on either side—on the upper floor, and several family rooms in the basement. Everything was spick and span—but too spick and span. It looked as if the place hadn’t been lived in for months. Oh, there were clothes hanging in the closet of the master bedroom, all women’s, but that was all. The house was fully furnished, but the rest of the closets were empty.

  The desk in the office was clean, the drawers and credenza… yep, you guessed it: empty. No computer, just a phone. The whole place was pristine. There was one way to find out if she’d lived there recently, though.

  I locked and closed the door behind me and then walked across the lawns to the house next door, rang the bell, and waited.

  The woman who answered the door was tall, almost as tall as me. True, she was wearing heels, but still. She was about thirty, wearing yoga pants and a sports bra under one of those tank tops that covers everything yet somehow manages to show it all, with a low neckline and wide-open arm holes.

  With heels?

  “Yes, what do you want?”

  Cryptic, too!

  “My name is Harry Starke.” I flashed my badge. “I’m an investigator. I’ve just been to the Hartwell home next door. There doesn’t seem to be anyone living there. Would you happen to know where I could find Mrs. Hartwell?”

  “Well, you’re right. She doesn’t live there. She hasn’t since her husband died. Why do you want her?”

  “It’s just an enquiry. I need to ask her some questions. Do you know where I could find her?”

  “Let me see that badge again.” She held out her hand.

  I sighed and handed it to her.

  “You’re not a cop. What the hell are you after? I’m going to call the police.” She started to close the door. She didn’t offer to return the badge. I put a hand on the door. She pushed harder.

  “Hold on a minute, Mrs.—whatever your name is. I’m working with the Major Crimes Division at the Chattanooga P.D. Here. Call this number, and give me my badge.” I handed her Kate’s card. She took it from me, scrutinized it, took out a cell phone and dialed the number. The call took less than thirty seconds, during which time she stared at me, her face growing more relaxed as the call progressed. Finally, she ended the call and smiled at me.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Starke. A girl can’t be too careful these days, can she? I’m Clara, Clara Mackie. Please. Do come in.”

  She turned and walked away into the house, her hips swinging—those really were tight pants. I wonder if she has any idea what that does to a guy.

  And she’s worried about being too careful?

  “Please, sit down.” She waved a hand at the breakfast table. “Can I get you some iced tea, lemonade, water?”

  “Er… no. No thank you. I won’t take up too much of your time, I promise.”

  “Oh, it’s no trouble at all. How can I help you?”

  Is this the same woman who answered the door?

  She sat opposite me, put her elbows on the table, lapped one hand over the other, and rested her chin on them.

  “Now I know who you are. You’re on TV all the time. You’re famous, Mr. Starke.”

  “Not so much, Mrs. Mackie. Look, I’d better tell you: Mrs. Hartwell is dead. Murdered. We found her body in the river by the golf course yesterday morning….”

  “Oh my God. No!” She sat bolt upright. Horrified. “What happened? Who did it? Who killed her?”

  “That’s what I’m trying to find out. And to do that I need to know where she was living, because it certainly wasn’t in the house next door.”

  “Oh my God. I can’t believe it. First Regis then Angela.” She wiped away tears.

  “She has… she had an apartment. She couldn’t stand the house without him, without Regis. It’s one of those nice places in Cobblestone Heights, number 33. Let me give you her iPhone number.” She grabbed a scrap of paper, wrote the number on it, then handed it to me.

  “She still keeps some things here—next door, that is—but I know she’d decided she wanted to sell the house. She just couldn’t bring herself to do it.”

  She sniffed, wiped her cheeks with a tissue, looked across the table at me, screwed up her eyes, and shuddered.

  I made a note of the address. “What about friends?” I asked.

  “Lots. He was a banker. They were always socializing. Until he died, that is. Then… well, she just withdrew.”

  “Any close friends in particular?”

  She thought for a moment, nodded, and said, “There were the Bentleys. Me and Joe, of course; Joe’s my husband. He’s in real estate. The Crofts… and Ben and Joan Loftis. Those are the ones that come to mind, but there were many more. He moved among the financial elite, and they were members of the Country Club. Very social.”

  I looked at my watch. It was almost three o’clock, and I wanted to see the apartment. It wasn’t too far away, maybe ten minutes. So I thanked her, said goodbye, and left her standing at the door looking miserable.

  When I got back into my car, I hit the Bluetooth and called Jacque to let her know I wouldn’t be back into the office that afternoon, and then I headed south on Banks toward East Brainerd.

  Cobblestone Heights was an upscale, three-story complex, walled and gated. The guard was amiable enough, but protective of his charge, until I showed him my card and offered him a twenty, which he took with all the dexterity of a stage magician.

  The gate swung open, and I drove on through. Number 33 was a ground-floor unit on the west side of the block, overlooking the pool.

  My lock picks made short work of the front door, and I soon found myself in a world I certainly hadn’t expected. I think it must have been junky to begin with, but the place had bee
n turned over, and whoever had done it hadn’t been bothered about making a mess, which told me that whoever it was hadn’t been concerned about being disturbed or discovered. They knew Angela wasn’t coming back.

  There wasn’t a square inch that hadn’t been searched, turned in some cases literally upside down. That told me they hadn’t found what they were looking for, and that frustrated the hell out of me. I wanted to get in there and search for myself, but I couldn’t. This was a crime scene. I heaved a sigh, stepped backward out of the front door, reached around and locked it, then pulled it closed.

  I called Kate and told her to get a CSI unit out there, and then I went and warned the guard not to let anyone near the apartment. I sat in my car, lay my head back on the rest, and tried to think. It wasn’t happening. My head was in a whirl. I needed time, space, a pen, and paper. I needed to go back to the office.

  It was almost four thirty when I arrived. It was Friday evening, so most of the crew had already left. Only Jacque and Tim remained. I told Jacque I would lock up and that she was to go home and enjoy her weekend, which I knew she would anyway. She and her partner Lucy always do. Tim I had join me in my office.

  With his laptop under his arm and a sheaf of printouts in his hand, Tim sat down opposite my desk, opened a file, and waited while I went to the cabinet and poured myself a small Laphroaig scotch whisky over a single ice cube.

  “Okay,” I said. “What do we have?’

  “I’ll start with Angela, because there’s not a whole lot I could find out about her. She led a quiet life after her husband died. She was well off; I haven’t been able to get a financial report yet, but I got a credit score. 832. Almost perfect. As for her net worth… I haven’t been able to find out, yet, but it’s probably substantial. She owned the house, but rented the apartment. She sat on several charitable boards, but was not actively involved in any of them after Regis Hartwell died. That’s about it as far she’s concerned.”

  “Okay, how about her husband?”

  “Regis Hartwell died of a heart attack on Sunday March 29, 2015, just over a year ago. He was a banker. He owned and operated Hartwell Community Banks. There were nine of them: three in Chattanooga, one in South Pittsburg, two in Cleveland, two in Dalton, and one in Fort Oglethorpe. They’re a privately held company, so I haven’t been able get an estimate of their value. I’ll keep on digging. When Regis died, the company passed to his younger brother, Ralph. He was the senior vice president of the company, but since it was privately held, he owned no part of it. Regis was the sole owner. Ralph Hartwell is thirty-eight years old, married, has two young kids, lives on Signal Mountain. Angela inherited the family home and all of her husband’s personal assets. Right now, that’s all I have. It’s not much. Sorry.”

  “So Regis had a brother, and he inherited the banks, not Angela?”

  “Yes.”

  “Hm. Could be a motive right there. Okay, Tim. Go on home. We’ll talk again Monday morning. Have a good weekend.”

  He closed the door behind him, and I settled down to think.

  I took a pad from the desk drawer and began to write. I have an iPad, but I can’t cope with that stupid digital keyboard, nor do I like to use a laptop. I like to do it the old fashioned way: paper and pencil. I thought for a moment, then started to write.

  Subject

  Angela Hartwell—Deceased

  29 years old

  Husband—Regis—Dead at thirty-eight—2015 C.O.D—Suspicious

  T.O.D.—11 p.m. Thursday May 26

  Questions

  Where was she during the hours before her death?

  Who did she spend them with?

  Who benefits from her death? Ralph Hartwell????

  Who would have reason to kill her?

  Did she have enemies?

  What about her husband?

  Is her death connected to his?

  Who were her close friends? Clara & Joe Mackie; Luis & Ester Bentley; Michael & Laura Croft; Ben & Joan Loftis. Any more?

  Do they have alibis?

  Did she have a boyfriend/girlfriend?

  She did, said, or saw something that caused her death. What was it?

  Someone searched her apartment. What were they looking for?

  Where are her small personal items, shoes, make up and such? There were none found near the body… unless (call Kate. See if CSI found anything at the apartment)

  Where is her cell phone? Women never go anywhere without one.

  Where’s her car? Need to check that.

  I sat there, my brain churning the way it always does when I see in black and white what little I have.

  I looked at the list. Fifteen questions just for starters, and all I really had was a name, a crime scene—what little there was of it—an approximate time of death, an empty house, a ransacked apartment, and… that was it. I realized that even though I’d known her for years, I knew absolutely nothing about the woman other than her age. Damn it.

  I looked at my watch. It was already after five thirty. I needed to wrap things up and get out of there.

  I went out into the main office, made a dozen copies of my subject sheet, folded one and put it into my wallet, dropped the rest of them into Jacque’s inbox, then went back into my office and slid into my black Nike golf jacket. It was warm outside, but I like to cover the Smith & Wesson M&P9 on my hip. Finally, I set the security system and left the office.

  I arrived home, a condo on Lakeshore Lane, some fifteen minutes later. It was almost six. I was due to pick Amanda up at seven thirty, so I had a little more than an hour to get myself ready. That meant I could manage just one more small Laphroaig, which I did.

  Chapter 5

  By seven, I was showered and dressed in what I call my IBM rig: dark gray slacks, Gucci loafers, a pale blue shirt with a royal blue tie, and a navy blue blazer. It’s not really me, but it’s comfortable and the folks at the club can live with it, and the jacket nicely covers the shoulder holster and M&P9 under my left arm. I never go anywhere without it. I even carry it in my golf bag out on the course. Paranoid? Maybe, but I’m only alive today because I carry it with me at all times.

  I made it to Amanda’s a couple of minutes early and let myself in—she’d given me the key for my birthday a couple of months ago. Some gift, huh?

  She was in the bathroom, dressed but not quite ready. She was putting on mascara. I leaned against the bathroom doorjamb and watched. You know, I’ve never met a guy who didn’t think his girlfriend was the most beautiful thing on two legs, but Amanda… she really is.

  She wore her strawberry-blond hair bobbed, elfin-like. Her heart-shaped face was defined by high cheekbones, a small, slightly upturned nose and huge, wide-set, pale green eyes. She was wearing a simple, sleeveless pale blue dress cut an inch above her knees, and matching heels. I watched as she leaned over the vanity and applied a touch of pale pink lipstick. There were times when I wondered if life was worth the living, especially when I was faced with such tragic events as those of the past two days. But then there were times when I felt blessed. This was one of them.

  “Whaaat?” she asked, past the lipstick. “Stop staring at me, Harry. You’re making me nervous.”

  I was making her nervous? What the hell did she think she was doing to me?

  “C’mere.” I grabbed her arm and pulled her to me. She dropped the lipstick on the vanity, put her arms around me, and leaned away from me, laughing, her upper thighs pressing against mine.

  “Stop it. You’ll smoosh me.” She leaned in, kissed me lightly on the lips, and pushed me away. “Wow. You’re in a good mood.”

  She was right. I was. But hell, who wouldn’t be? I was going to spend the next forty-eight hours with a stunningly beautiful woman, who adored me and was willing to make it plain to anyone who cared to listen. And once again, I was struck by the incongruity of it. Less than a year ago, I’d hated this woman with a passion. I couldn’t stand the sight of her, but now I hated every moment I wasn’t with her. Well, that mig
ht be a bit of an exaggeration, but you get the idea.

  In case you’re wondering… well, I’ve already mentioned that Amanda is an anchor at Channel 7 TV. It was almost three years ago that she did an on-air profile of me—I’d just solved a major cold case. Anyway, the profile was less than flattering, although she’ll tell you different. Truthfully it was a hatchet job, and I swore she’d never get the chance to do it again. Then, back in August of last year, she managed to talk me into a “collaboration,” as she called it. One thing led to another, and here we are. Funny how things change.

  It was Friday night, so the club was packed with members when we arrived. No matter. I’d taken the precaution of calling ahead to book my favorite table, the one in the bay window overlooking the ninth green.

  It must have taken us at least twenty minutes to get from the foyer to the table. One after another the club members grabbed either Amanda or me to say hello and have a word or two of conversation.

  As a newscaster, she was used to it. I’m not. In fact I hate it. But I’m now almost as well-known as she is. I’ve gained a certain notoriety over the past several years, which isn’t good in my line of business. Oh, it brings me lots of business, but it also makes me something of a target.

  “Whew,” she whispered as we sat down. “That was an ordeal. Whose idea was it to come here on a Friday night?”

  The question was rhetorical, and required no answer, so I didn’t. I just took her hand under the table and squeezed it. She smiled up at me. Life was good.

  I ordered drinks. A gin and tonic for me—Bombay Sapphire—and a Yellow Bird for Amanda—something she’d discovered and enjoyed on our trip to Jamaica at Christmas. The drinks came, and we were still talking about nothing in particular. I wanted to talk to her about the Hartwells, but now was not the time.

  “Hello, you two. I have someone here who’d like to meet you.”

  I looked up, startled. We both did. “Hello, Dad.” I stood and offered him my hand. It was always like that. My father is an ex-marine colonel and he still retained his somewhat formal posture, even with me, but that wasn’t what got my attention. He was accompanied by a woman. Or a goddess.