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

by Blair Howard

  “Time of death?” I asked.

  “Hmmm, hard to say with any accuracy. Probably sometime last night. Rigor is fully complete. It’s quite warm inside the house, and even warmer outside, which will have affected the rate of the loss of body heat. The body temp indicates ten to twelve hours, but I think it’s more likely twelve to fourteen. Lividity is fixed, so at least ten hours.” He thought for a moment, his hand cupping his chin, stroking it, staring at me, unblinking. It was unnerving.

  “Let’s say nine o’clock last night, give or take an hour, shall we? I may be able to do better when I get him on the table. That’s the best I can do for now.”

  He turned to Kate.

  “Anything else, Lieutenant? No? Good. Well then. You two seem to have a handle on things, so, I’ll leave you to it. Oh, I’ll do him tomorrow, after lunch. Shall we say two o’clock?” And with that, he picked up that oversize black case of his and shambled off, humming quietly to himself all the way to his car, the Tyvek booties dragging in the gravel of the driveway as he went. He set the case in the SUV, spoke a word or two to the ambulance driver while waving his hands to emphasize his point, then he climbed into the car and drove away. The ambulance crew bagged the body and hauled it away to Doc Sheddon’s lair.

  I shudder to think about it. Hell, he could say any time he liked. I wasn’t going to be there.

  “So, Harry,” Kate said, stripping off her covers and bagging them, “this really screws things up. Where the hell do we go from here?”

  I looked at my watch. It was almost one o’clock. “Let’s go somewhere and talk. I don’t feel much like eating. Do you?”

  She shook her head. “I couldn’t eat anything, but a cup of black coffee sounds really good right now. But before we go, I want you to have a look at something.” She held up a clear plastic evidence bag. Inside I could see an iPhone 6 in one of those OtterBox cases.

  “Ralph’s?” I asked.

  “Yup, and it was used to send a suicide text to his wife, Mary. All it said was, ‘I’m sorry.’ I called her. She’s staying for a few days with her sister in Myrtle Beach. She ignored it. Thought he was apologizing for an argument they’d had before she left. Thing is, if he didn’t send it—and if he didn’t kill himself, which he obviously didn’t—somebody else must have, and that somebody was probably the killer. Which means it could give us an accurate time of death.” She gestured for the lead CSI tech, and handed him the baggie.

  “There’s a McDonalds on Dayton Boulevard,” I said. “That work?”

  She nodded.

  -----

  When it came down to it, I couldn’t handle the thought of Mickey D’s food either, so we settled for Lillie Mae’s Place instead. At least they serve a decent cup of coffee.

  We grabbed a table by the window, and as we sat I was struck by a wave of nostalgia. Kate and I, we’d done this so many times over the years. So many tables, just like this one. Hell, I missed it. I missed Kate. I could tell she knew what I was thinking, because she kept looking at me and then down into her coffee cup.

  “You miss it too. Don’t you?” I asked. Was that moisture in her eyes?

  “You son of a bitch,” she whispered. “Why did you have to screw it up?”

  “I….” I had no answer. It had been totally my fault. I reached out and put my hand on hers, but she snatched it back.

  “Don’t do that. You made your choices. You have Amanda now. There’s no going back. I just hope you don’t do to her what you did to me.”

  “Kate, I—”

  “Let it go, Harry. We need to talk about Ralph Hartwell.”

  I shook my head. I could have cut the atmosphere with a rusty knife. I got up. Fetched us both a second cup of coffee. Looked at her from across the room while I was getting it. Her eyes were red. I felt like shit.

  Somehow, we got through the next few minutes and yet another cup of coffee, but it wasn’t easy.

  Finally: “Okay,” she said. “He was murdered, and by someone who didn’t know what he or she was doing. Who did it and why?”

  “Who?” I asked. “I think it may have been my visit to Ruth yesterday that caused it. I laid it all out for her. Told her I knew she was in cahoots with Ralph, robbing the banks. I even suggested she killed Angela to stop her from exposing them. So, one or all of the Archers killed Ralph; has to be. Why? To stay out of jail.”

  “Easy for you to say,” she said. “How the hell do we prove it?”

  “The fact that Ralph is gone doesn’t mean he didn’t kill Regis, or Angela, for that matter. I think he probably did kill his brother. Angela? I don’t know. If he did kill her, why did he cart her all the way to the golf course? It would have taken more than one person to get the body down the embankment to the river, so if he killed her, who helped him? Why would anyone do that?”

  “So what makes you think it was the Archers?”

  “Process of elimination. Look, they were obviously in bed together, literally and in crime. Ruth was screwing Ralph for sure. The Archers’ business interests are borderline legal at best, downright criminal at worst.”

  “Yeah, but—”

  “Okay. Answer me this: You’ve seen Ralph, alive and dead. He was an ugly little critter, not the sort to attract the likes of Ruth Archer. So what did she see in him? Money. She saw lots of money. Ralph might have come up with the counterfeit check scheme. It’s not new, and he would have known about it from his banking experience, but he sure as hell wasn’t smart enough to carry it out. Ruth Archer was. Think about it. She’s always there, somewhere. Either hovering in the background or right out front.”

  I looked at her. She was slowly shaking her head.

  “Okay. I’ll boil it down for you,” I said. “One: we think Ralph killed Regis. Two: Ralph is having an affair with Ruth. Three: Ralph is stealing. Four: Ruth is a crook. Five: Ruth has been paying far too much interest in me and the investigation. Six: Someone is laundering the ill-gotten gains; I think that’s Ruth. Seven: Ralph and Ruth are about to be exposed by Angela. Eight: Angela is murdered. Nine: We question Ralph. I question Ruth, and then Ralph is killed. I could go on.” I spread my hands. “Kate, that’s way too many coincidences.”

  She thought about it. I could almost see the wheels turning inside her head.

  Suddenly, she seemed to make up her mind. She nodded, leaned back in her seat, and clasped her hands together in front of her. “Okay. I’ll buy it. But how do we prove it?”

  “First, we need to search his office,” I said. “Maybe something interesting will turn up.”

  “I’ll head that way as soon as we leave here.”

  “I also think we need to take a look at the Archer’s vehicles. If Angela was killed or incapacitated somewhere other than at the club; in her apartment, for instance, she must have been moved. That means whoever did the moving must have used a vehicle. It couldn’t have been Ruth’s Merc; there wouldn’t have been enough room. We need to find out what the twins drive. Or maybe Burke and Hare helped; let’s grab their vehicles too.”

  “I can do that. It shouldn’t take but a couple of minutes.” She called her office and put in the request, and then we waited for the callback. It came in less than five minutes. Rachel had a Toyota Highlander. Rebekah owned a 2015 Jeep Grand Cherokee. The two repo men drove a recovery vehicle, a Ford 250 King Cab with a hydraulic lift.

  It was after two o’clock when we got out of Lillie Mae’s. Kate took me back to the PD, and I left her to make the arrangements necessary to seize the vehicles.

  It didn’t take long.

  I was in my car and just turning into the office lot when Kate called to say that the warrants had been issued and three teams of officers had been dispatched. The vehicles would be seized and transported to the CSI compound.

  Like with the DNA match, it would be a couple of days before we had a definitive answer.

  Chapter 29

  The obligatory Friday morning staff meeting ended around nine thirty. The attention I gave the office�
��s minutia hadn’t been what it could be, and I was antsy to get out of there.

  As soon as I made it into my own office, I grabbed my phone and called Kate.

  “Hey. It’s me,” I said. “Listen. I’ve been thinking—”

  “Did it hurt?”

  “What? No. Dammit, Kate. Be serious. I was thinking. Angela Hartwell said in her goodbye letter that, even though the stealing seemed to stop when Regis died, she suspected that it had continued.”

  “And that matters because…?”

  “Because if it did continue, Ralph probably kept records. If so, where are they? Have CSI finished with Ralph Hartwell’s home yet? Did they find anything?”

  “I haven’t heard. It’s a bit soon, but hang on a minute and I’ll check.”

  The wait seemed interminable.

  Kate came back on the line. “They found some interesting traces—nothing they’re ready to talk about yet—but they didn’t find any interesting papers.”

  “You searched his office at the main branch, right?”

  “Yesterday afternoon, yeah, but it was clean. I don’t think the man did a whole lot of work there. It was a typical executive suite, all show and no dough.”

  I’d figured as much. “Okay, I think we need to talk to Mary Hartwell. I’ll set it up. I’ll need you to be there with a search warrant.”

  “I can do that. What are we looking for?”

  “Keys. Specifically, safe deposit box keys. It makes sense that Ralph wouldn’t keep secret papers at the office, but nor would he bury them in the backyard. He’d keep them in a bank. Maybe at one of his own branches, but more likely at another bank entirely. Now, where would he hide the key? If he’s smart, he’d know the best place to hide a small item would be in plain sight.”

  “Makes sense. Give me a couple of hours. I’ll call you.” She disconnected before I could answer.

  Damn. I’m gonna have to talk to her about her telephone etiquette.

  I called Mary Hartwell and asked for an early afternoon appointment. She reluctantly suggested three thirty; I suggested two o’clock. I won.

  It was a different Mary Hartwell that met us at the front door. She must have been to the salon, because her hair had been cut and colored. It was still blonde, but much darker and now with highlights. Her clothes were expensive, stylish, more suited for business than pleasure. If this lady was in mourning, she certainly didn’t show it.

  “I hope this is not going to take long,” she said as she stood stiffly back to allow us to enter. “What exactly do you want to talk to me about?”

  “I have a warrant to search the house,” Kate said and handed the papers to her.

  “It’s already been searched, and thoroughly, by your forensic people. I thought they were done.”

  “They were, but something’s come up. So, if you please. We’ll begin with Mr. Hartwell’s office.”

  “If you’ll tell me what it is that you’re looking for, maybe I can help,” she said, leading the way through to what I assumed was an extension at the back of the house. Neither Kate nor I answered.

  It was an office, that was for sure, and obviously the place where he’d spent a lot of time. Cluttered, untidy, papers, books, photographs, two computers, printer, router—the list went on.

  I sighed.

  She heard it. “As I said,” she repeated, “perhaps I can help.”

  “We’re looking for proof that Ralph was still robbing the bank’s customers. That would be record books, accounts, but more likely it would be a key to a safety deposit box.”

  I turned and looked at her. She wouldn’t meet my eye.

  “You know. Don’t you,” I said.

  She didn’t answer. She sighed, shook her head, and walked out of the room. She returned a moment later with her handbag. She reached inside, rummaged around the bottom, withdrew a key ring with three keys on it, and handed it to me.

  “There’s a safe deposit box at the main downtown branch. I’m running things now. I can get you in. I’ve looked in it, by the way. It contained only life insurance papers and other personal documents.” She paused, and then continued. “Look, you have it all wrong. Ralph stopped all that when Regis died. It scared him, and he didn’t have the stomach, or the balls, to continue whatever it was he was up to. Honestly.”

  Honestly? Hmmm.

  I handed the keys to Kate. “We’ll need a warrant to open it,” she said. “If not, any evidence we might find in it would be the product of an illegal search and wouldn’t be admissible.”

  She nodded, “I understand. I told you what was in it, but you can rest assured that the box will not be disturbed again until you open it. When is that likely to be?”

  Kate left me alone with her and went outside to make a call. She returned a moment later.

  “I can pick it up in an hour. Can you meet me at the bank at say,” she looked at her watch, “five o’clock?”

  “Certainly. Now, if you’ve finished here….”

  “Not quite. I’ve ordered the CSI team back to search the place again. No, no.” She held up her hand as Mary was about to speak. “It’s not that I don’t believe you. I just need to satisfy myself that we haven’t missed anything.”

  “She was lying through her teeth,” Kate snarled as we drove back down Signal Mountain. “You can bet that whatever was in that box, and I’m certain there was something, is long gone. It’s barely worth the time it will take to go look at it, but I have to. Damn!”

  I smiled to myself, then grit my teeth as she swung the car around the tight bends of the mountain road. Next time, I’d drive myself. She was right, though, except for one thing: If we hadn’t experienced the new Mrs. Hartwell, the afternoon would have been a complete waste of time. It sure as hell hadn’t taken her long to take over the reins of the Hartwell banking empire. Mrs. Hartwell was now a very wealthy woman.

  Chapter 30

  The following morning didn’t start well. After sitting up half the night talking with Amanda, I woke up late. I left her sleeping, grabbed a quick shower, and drove straight to Amnicola to meet with Kate and Mike Willis. He was already seated in her office, with a coffee cup in hand and a pile of paperwork on the edge of her desk. Kate, though lovely as ever, was in a rare, pissy mood. I could see that through the open office door. I wasn’t feeling too chipper myself, and I was in no mood for what came next.

  I knocked on the doorframe and stuck my head inside, but before I could say anything—

  “About damn time. Where the hell have you been?”

  Mike grinned up at me, and raised his cup in a mock toast. “Morning, Harry.”

  I looked at my watch. It was just after nine o’clock.

  “Mike,” I said with a nod. To Kate: “Who the hell kicked your cat?”

  “I’ve been here for almost an hour. Mike’s been here since eight thirty….”

  “Whoa,” I said. “Let’s get something straight here. I don’t work for you. Today is Saturday. I don’t work weekends. Furthermore, you are not paying me for my time.” The more I said, the angrier I became. I was about to lose it completely. “You dragged me into this mess and now you think you can treat me like one of your rookies. I left the force to get away from this kind of crap. Tell you what. Screw it. I’ll come back when you’re in a better mood.”

  I turned and walked back out of the office, leaving her staring after me, open-mouthed.

  “Hey. You come back here.” I ignored the shout and continued on, straight out the front entrance. I was opening the car door when she appeared on the steps behind me.

  “What the hell is wrong with you?” she asked. “Damn, you can be a touchy son of a bitch.”

  I pulled the door open. “Yeah, I can, and I don’t have to put up with your crap. I walked away from all that ten years ago.”

  “Okay, if that’s the way you want it. I’m sorry I pissed you off, but I’m not going to beg. Have a nice day, Harry Starke.”

  I stood beside the open car door, staring after her
as she walked away.

  She really does have a nice ass.

  I sighed, slammed the car door, and went back inside. I grabbed a cup of coffee from the machine and went back to Kate’s office.

  “Sorry,” I said. “I guess I overreacted.” I sat down in the chair next to Mike. They both looked at me; neither one of them spoke. “Okay,” I said, unable to keep the edge out of my voice, “you want to get on with it, or not? You’re on my time now, and I haven’t got all day.”

  Kate simply looked at Willis and nodded. She picked up her cup, held it in both hands, and stared at me over the rim as she sipped.

  “Um… alrighty then,” Mike said, in a fair imitation of Jim Carrey. “I’ll begin with the good stuff. We did a thorough search of the Hartwell home, both times, but we found almost nothing. There were prints everywhere, mostly they belonged to Mr. and Mrs. Hartwell. A few didn’t, including yours, but they were all easily accounted for and eliminated. Ralph’s phone had one of those armored glass screen protectors; it had been wiped. So had the case. So there was nothing there. But we did find something interesting. We had Rex George—he’s the go-to man where blood spatter’s concerned. We had him take a look at what we had, both on and around the body, and he found something. One of the splashes was a little different from what you’d expect, both in pattern and composition.”

  “Oh?” I said.

  “Yeah. See, blood spatter from a close contact wound is usually high velocity. It flies fast and makes a distinctive pattern when it hits. This wasn’t like that. It was more of a gob, a droplet. The direction of travel was different from the rest of the spatter. Instead of traveling away from the body to its right, it traveled across in front of it, from right side to left. It landed just beyond and in front of the left foot. It could not have come from the gunshot. That would have been impossible.”

  “So how did it get there, then?” Kate put her cup on the desk and leaned forward. “You’re saying the blood isn’t Hartwell’s, right?”

  “Oh, we’re pretty sure it came from the victim, but not in the way you’d expect. It consisted of blood and minute fragments of brain matter and… saliva. I think maybe the killer had his mouth open when he pulled the trigger and got himself a mouthful—well, some at least—and then spat it out. That would account for the direction and pattern.”