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

by Blair Howard

  I’d hit a nerve. Her face was white, her lips drawn tight.

  I had her.

  And then she shoved her hand down between the seat cushions, brought forth a very large semi-automatic pistol, and pointed it at me. “I may not know much about ballistics, Mr. Starke, but I do know how to use a gun. The safety is off and there’s one in the chamber, so don’t try anything.”

  “Put the gun down, Mary. It’s way too big for you, and we both know you’ll never get away with killing me.”

  “Perhaps not, you smug son of a bitch, but I’ll have the satisfaction of knowing I beat you. I tried already, you know. That was me on the other side of the river. How’s Amanda? I hope the bitch dies.”

  “Huh. I had that figured for someone else.” I paused for a couple of seconds and then said, “You’re not going to let me walk out of here, are you?”

  She shook her head, smiling.

  “Fine,” I said, trying to sound unconcerned. Shit. The bitch is unhinged. I need to play for time.

  “You want to tell me about it?”

  “Let’s just say I got in over my head and leave it at that.”

  “Oh come on, Mary. What have you got to lose? Okay then. How about I tell you?” No answer.

  “Regis was about to expose Ralph and his check fraud scam, so you had to stop him. You couldn’t just murder him. That would raise too many questions, questions you didn’t trust Ralph to be able to handle. It had to look like he died of natural causes, so you gave him a heart attack. My question is twofold: how did you pull it off, and what did you use? SUX?”

  She couldn’t resist it. People like her, narcissists, rarely can, and that’s what I’d been banking on.

  “SUX?” she asked. “I have no idea what that is. I googled it, of course: How to induce a heart attack. How does anyone do anything these days? I used potassium chloride. It’s easy enough to get hold of on the street, if you know the right people. Hell, the article even told me how to do it. Ralph and I went to talk to him. Ralph thought we were going to tell him we would accept his tight-assed offer. Ralph might have been, but I wasn’t. Where the hell Angela was, I have no idea; she wasn’t home. I slipped a roofie into his drink, waited until he was out of it, then injected the goo into that big old vein that runs over the ankle bone. All I had to do was pull his sock down. Ten seconds and it was done. Thirty seconds later, he was dead. I thought Ralph was going to join him, have a heart attack himself. He’d had no clue what I’d been planning. He just stood there like a goddam dopy donkey, and watched. He didn’t even ask what I was doing, the dumbass.”

  Well, I’d asked for it, and she was certainly delivering.

  “What about Angela?” I asked.

  “That was a little more difficult. It almost got away from me. You’re right. She was going to the police with her ‘evidence,’ as she called it. Ralph bought her a drink at the bar. It was easy enough to slip a roofie into it. We talked for ten minutes or so. Ralph tried desperately to talk her out of it, but she wouldn’t have it. Finally, Ralph gave it up, made some excuse to use the restroom in the lobby, and went out to wait for her. All I had to do was keep her talking for a few minutes more, and I did….” She paused, looked thoughtful, then said, seemingly to herself, “She was a bitch.”

  She shook her head, as if to rid herself of some unwanted thought, and then continued. “She was already unsteady on her feet when she left. When Ruth grabbed her in the lobby, I thought I was going to lose her, but I didn’t. I followed her out. Ralph already was with her, holding her up. We couldn’t risk being seen putting her into the car, so we walked her across the golf course to the river. I had to use the flashlight app on my iPhone, it was so dark. By the time we got there, she was completely out of it. I just had to finish it. It was easy enough. Something I’d learned in self-defense class years ago. But I couldn’t see in the dark that the water was shallow at that particular spot. I thought the river would take her away.”

  “CSI found a hair in her watchband,” I said. “It was Ruth’s. You put it there, right?”

  She looked thoughtfully at me. I had a feeling something else was going on in her head, but she continued.

  “The hair? Oh…. Yes. That was easy. Ralph was having an affair with Ruth. I’d known about it for months. He knew I knew, and he didn’t care. The fool was living in some kind of fantasy world. All she wanted him for were those checks. Anyway, I found the hair on the back of his jacket after one of his nights out. Actually, I found several, and I kept them all in a plastic baggie. Turned out I needed only one. I hooked it into the watchband and… well, as they say: the rest is history. I took her phone and keys. I tossed her phone out of the car window when we crossed the Veteran’s Bridge on the way to her apartment. I was hoping we’d find her so-called proof, but we didn’t.”

  “Okay, I can understand all that, but why Ralph? What made you decide to kill him?”

  “Ralph was a stupid, weak little man. He’d been chattering on for days after what happened to Angela. When you came around asking questions, he panicked. He was sure you’d figure it out. The damned fool wanted to make a run for it. Hah. For once in his insignificant little life, he was right. You did. Anyway, the idiot was talking about going to Bahrain. Apparently there’s no extradition treaty there. He figured he could wire all of the money there and we could live happily ever after.” She shook her head at the thought. “He actually thought I would go along with it; spend my days out there baking in the desert. Well, I wouldn’t. I hated the little bastard. So I didn’t have a choice, did I.”

  Something squawked in my jacket pocket. I held up both hands and said, “That’s my phone. I should take it. Do you mind?”

  She just stared at me, the gun unwavering. I slowly lowered my right hand toward my jacket pocket. The gun moved upward and toward me ever so slightly.

  “Easy, Mary,” I said. “It’s just my phone.” I took it slowly from my pocket and, my eyes locked on hers, put it my ear.

  “You get all that?” I asked Kate.

  “You bastard!” Mary shouted.

  I started forward. I thought she was going to shoot me. She didn’t. Instead she turned the gun upward, stuck the muzzle in her mouth, and pulled the trigger.

  BAM.

  The impact of the explosion and the heavy .45-caliber bullet flung her backward; the gun flew out of her hand, up and over my head; her chair tipped, and she rolled sideways out of it onto the floor. There was blood everywhere. I thought my eardrums had burst. I didn’t I hear the police officers rush in. I saw them, but it would be some ten minutes later before my hearing began to return. I looked up. Kate had her hand on my shoulder, mouthing something I couldn’t understand. I shook my head, and she grabbed my elbow. I stood. She steered me outside. There were four cruisers already there, and I didn’t doubt there were more on the way. I sat in Kate’s unmarked and waited. Slowly, my hearing began to return, and I was treated to the cacophony of the sirens of a half-dozen more cruisers, two ambulances—why in God’s name did they need two ambulances and a fire truck?

  The last to arrive was the inimitable Doc Sheddon.

  “Hey, Harry,” he said as he shambled by toward the open door. “How’s it hanging?”

  I couldn’t help it. Bad as the situation was, I had to smile. The man never changes; nothing ever fazes him.

  It’s a good way to be, I suppose.

  Chapter 37

  It had been two weeks since Mary Hartwell killed herself. The noise from the press had finally died down, though once again I came off as the notorious, hard-ass private investigator. It was starting to get old. A reporter for the Express had managed to get past the police line and snapped a photo of me coming out of the house covered in blood and brains. It was just what they needed. The image had run in the local press and on all of the TV channels for days; it got a mention on CNN and an even bigger one on Fox. Fifteen minutes of fame. I wish that’s all I’d ever managed to glean.

  It was no wonder then that
I received a phone call from Senator Michaels. I think it was more as a courtesy than out of concern. If it took a suicide to stir up some interest, I wondered if it was worth staying in touch with her at all. Ah, maybe I expect too much. Who knows?

  The Archers? I bet you’re wondering who it was that opened all of those bank accounts. The twins, of course—both of them. They were smart, but not smart enough. The photo recognition software confirmed that it was one or both of them in the images, but that’s not good enough for the courts—reasonable doubt, right? You can’t just pick one and go with it; you have to identify the correct one. The records are filled with cases where one twin committed a crime, but couldn’t be brought to trial because it was impossible to prove which twin actually did the deed. Our two were betting we couldn’t either.

  Well, they lost the bet. We could. The images told us the sisters had opened the accounts, and handwriting told us which twin opened which accounts. The FBI compared the applications with known samples of each sister’s handwriting and was able to tie each account to a particular sister. Cool, huh? I have a feeling the ladies, all three of them, will soon be on vacation, courtesy of the Federal Justice Department.

  Speaking of vacations. As soon as I was turned loose after the Mary Hartwell incident, I felt like I needed to get away for a while, that it was time for break.

  So I’d taken one—and so did Amanda, milking her compassionate leave for all it was worth. We headed for the hills, to my cabin in the forests of northwest Georgia. It’s quiet up there. Peaceful.

  Now we were back in Chattanooga, and I didn’t feel a whole lot better. Not about my life in general, nor the pain and suffering that seemed to follow me wherever I went. Maybe it was time for me to retire, play a little golf, maybe even write a book. I could afford it.

  …Nah.

  So there we were, on a warm summer evening early in July. Amanda and I had just enjoyed a quiet dinner and were taking it easy at my place on Lakeshore Lane.

  “I don’t know if I’ll ever feel the same,” Amanda said, laying her head back against my arm. We were on the sofa together—a new one—in front of the big window.

  “About what?” I asked.

  “About sitting in front of this window. I feel all… exposed. It’s kinda creepy.”

  I knew exactly what she meant, because I’d felt it myself. She was right. It would never be the same.

  Mary Hartwell’s attack had done more damage than I’d thought. Maybe my love affair with the river was over.

  “Maybe it’s time to move on,” I said. “Find somewhere else.”

  She sat up, turned to look at me. “Seriously?”

  I nodded.

  “But you love this place.”

  “I did, but… I don’t think I can get past what happened either. I feel like I’ll always be… wary, looking for something that isn’t there, wondering when it will be there. That’s no way to live.”

  “But where would we go?”

  “We?” I smiled at her.

  “You don’t think for a minute you’re going anywhere without me, do you?”

  I didn’t.

  Gone

  A Harry Starke Novel

  By

  Blair Howard

  Chapter 1

  It had been one of those days when I couldn’t wait to close the office doors and go home for the night. A rough one. I’d spent most of the morning in court being torn apart by a testosterone-deficient old man who should have retired years ago. I hadn’t wanted to appear in the first place—it was a very high-profile divorce case, and very messy—but, as they say, that’s what friends are for.

  So there I was, all alone in my office at just after five thirty on a Friday afternoon. The staff had all left for the weekend, and I was just about to do the same. I was looking forward to some good company in the form of the inimitable Amanda Cole, star of small-screen news at Channel 7, some good food, maybe a round of golf with the old man, and some of Scotland’s finest beverage to smooth the way. Yes, I was looking forward to the weekend. Little did I know it would be one of the worst weekends of my life.

  I took one last look around, and then headed out into the parking lot. I was about to lock the office door behind me when my cell phone buzzed.

  Amanda?

  But it wasn’t her. I didn’t even recognize the number. I almost rejected the call, but… well, you know what curiosity is, and what it does. I answered it.

  “Hey, Harry. It’s Wes Johnston. You got a minute?”

  Chief Johnston? What the hell? This ain’t happenin’.

  But it was. Even though he was the last person I would have expected to hear from, or wanted to see that evening.

  Chief Wesley Johnston, head of the Chattanooga Police Department, was an old nemesis of mine. He’d hired me on as a rookie cop more than eighteen years ago, and we’d enjoyed a somewhat bellicose relationship right up until I’d finally had enough of the political BS and quit the force. That had been more than ten years ago. Since then, I had become a successful private investigator, and things between us had deteriorated even further. Oh he tolerated me, but only because of my professional relationship with my one-time partner, Detective Lieutenant Kate Gazzara, a relationship he reluctantly, now and then, blessed in the name of closing cases. But this? This was not like him, not at all.

  “I was just closing up shop, Chief. What is it?”

  “I have a problem, Harry. I need… shit, I need some help. I’m outside your office. Can we talk?”

  Wow, now that’s a first.

  Since I was already outside, I walked to the gate and looked down the street. There he was.

  Oh hell. This is just what I need.

  “Yeah, come on.” I beckoned, disconnected the call, and went back into my outer office.

  “Yeah, I know,” he said as he approached. “Me, of all people, right?”

  I nodded. “You want some coffee, Wes?”

  “Nah. Look, Harry. I have a problem.”

  I’d worked for Johnston for almost nine years. He’d hired me into the Chattanooga PD right after I graduated Fairleigh Dickinson in ninety-seven. Because of my Masters in forensic psychology, I was fast-tracked, and made detective two years later—yep, and some folks did pull a string or two, hence my lack of popularity within the junior ranks of the department and… well, maybe with Johnston too. I spent the next seven years doing as I was told—most of the time—and following the rules… most of the time. I made sergeant, and then I’d had enough. I quit the force in 2007 and formed my own detective agency. My progress since then has been nothing short of meteoric, largely because of the people I know—I know everybody worth knowing in three states—but also because I’m good at what I do. I’m also discreet, thorough, and I produce results.

  “Let’s go in here,” I said, and he followed me into my office. My cave, as Kate Gazzara likes to call it. I offered him a seat in front of the acreage I call my desk, and dumped myself down into the leather-upholstered throne behind it.

  Johnston was a big man. Not overly tall, but hefty. Out of uniform, a light blue golf shirt emphasized his slight paunch. His head was big, and round, and shaved, and polished to a shine. Hulk Hogan would have been proud of the moustache he wore, which was white and probably the reason for the shaved head. And he had an air about him. Not of arrogance, but he was certainly used to getting his own way, and he expected obedience from his underlings, a fact I could attest to personally.

  “So, what’s this problem? What can I do for you, Chief?”

  He looked at me, shook his head, and said, “Ah, screw it. I don’t need this.” And he started to get his feet.

  “Hey, Wes,” I said. “Sit your ass back down and tell me what’s on your mind.”

  He’d half-risen, had his hands on the arms of the chair and everything. He glared at me, balefully, then slowly lowered himself back down.

  “So?” I asked.

  “It’s Emily. She’s gone.”

  “Gone? Gon
e where?”

  “If I knew that I wouldn’t be here now would I?”

  Emily was his eldest daughter. Jeez, she must be… what? Twenty-one, twenty-two?

  I remembered her well. In the old days, when I was still a rookie and she was no more than five or six, she’d run riot around his office. Cute little thing… and she’d made me her special friend. Bless her, she’d even asked me to marry her when she grew up. She often visited me at my desk, full of questions, and even though I could never answer all of them, the fact that I bothered with her always seemed to be enough. Emily, gone?

  “Okay, Wes. I’m not a mind reader. You going to tell me or what?”

  He fidgeted. Wes never fidgeted. “She’s supposed to be in school, at the Belle Edmondson College for Women, on Signal Mountain.”

  “Whoa. That’s quite an exclusive school,” I said. “Must cost a packet.”

  He looked sharply at me, but made no comment.

  “As I said,” he continued, “she’s supposed to be at school. Thing is we—her mother and me—haven’t heard a word from her in almost a week, and that’s not like her. She’s not answering her phone. Calls go to voicemail. Texts aren’t answered.”

  “GPS?”

  “No. It’s still active, and triangulation puts it somewhere on the mountain—at the school, I assume. The school staff have looked for it: nothing.”

  I scribbled the details on a legal pad. “She boards up there, at the college?”

  “Yes. We talked it over. It made sense. It’s fine driving back and forth up there in summer, but when bad weather comes… well, you know how those roads are, and anyway, we couldn’t have gotten her in there as a day student. So she boards.”

  “When did you last see her?”

  “Last Friday. She stopped by the office for a few minutes. Last time before that was five, maybe six weeks ago. She comes and stays weekends once in a while, but mostly she stays at the college, studying or working with the horses.”