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 don’t suppose you have a knife or a screwdriver?” I asked Kate.

  She smiled. “What do you think?”

  I stared down at the interior of the drawer and at the tiny hole, and then I had an idea. I went to the closet and grabbed an empty wire clothes rack. I straightened the hook, and then put the end of it into the bathroom doorjamb and bent it into the shape of an l, the arm about a half-inch long. I inserted it into the hole and pulled. It was a very tight fit, but it began to move, slowly at first, the two pieces of wood squeaking one against the another. And then it was free.

  “What do we have here?” The space below the false bottom was no deeper than the book that lay inside it, maybe a little more than an inch thick. In fact, it was clear that book had supported the plywood, hence the solid feel when it was in situ. Had it not been for the snagged strap, we never would have found it.

  I photographed the book, and the prepaid phone that lay beside it, and the neat stack of photographs—they were held together by a short length of red satin ribbon—then lifted the book out. Kate reached for the photos.

  The book was roughly eight inches by ten, and obviously homemade. The cover was two pieces of thick white cardboard, three-hole punched. The interior pages were white cartridge paper, also punched. It was all held together by more red ribbon. The front cover was covered in doodles; the pages were a riot of color. Drawings, sketches, notes, doodles; there were even a few photographs glued in. At the back were six pages of lined paper. On them were listed, line-by-line, what appeared to be a random series of letters and numbers. I handed the book to Kate.

  “What do you make of it?”

  She traded me for the photos and flipped through the pages, all the while shaking her head.

  “It seems she was quite an artist. Some of the girls are beautiful. But the doodles, the numbers? I have no idea.”

  I turned on the phone and went to recent calls. There were none. Either the phone had never been used or it had been wiped.

  “We’ll take it all with us.” I picked up the photos. “I’ll put this stuff back together and we’ll get out of here. I want to see this Rösche character—and Dr. Jepson.”

  I slipped the false bottom back into the drawer and pushed it home, the squeak of wood against wood grating on my teeth. With the plywood back in place, there was no way to tell what it was. Someone had gone to a great deal of trouble to construct it. I pushed the drawer back into its slot in the sideboard and then put the underwear back inside it. After one last look around, we were out of there. I locked the door and, once we were back in the car, put the key in a small paper evidence envelope, labeled, dated, and signed it. The same with Emily’s book and the photographs.

  -----

  Mirrors and Aviators were still parked in their cruiser at the side of the building. Aviators had his elbow hanging out of the window and a shit-eating grin on his face.

  I started the car, pulled it alongside the cruiser, and rolled down the window.

  “Okay,” I said to the still-grinning Aviators. “How about you escort us to see your boss?”

  “What you find in that room, bub? We saw you carry something out.”

  “Are you going to take us, or do I have to go back to the office and get directions?”

  He didn’t answer. Instead he turned and said something I couldn’t hear to Mirrors, who hit the starter, put the car in gear, reversed, then headed away, wheels spinning, showering the side of the Maxima with gravel.

  “Goddamn it. He’ll pay for that.” I followed them along a winding road to the north end of the campus, where they parked the car in front of a single-story, block-built structure with a large blue sign that boasted “Campus Police.”

  The two clowns climbed out of the car and walked to the steps.

  “Y’all wait here,” Aviators shouted. “I’ll see if the captain wants to see you.”

  “This is bullshit,” I said to Kate. “C’mon.”

  We got out of the car and walked toward the entrance. By the time we reached the bottom of the flight of four steps, they were back. They came down the steps and stood together at the bottom, arms hanging loosely at their sides. What the hell do they think this is, High Noon?

  I don’t like to fight. But sometimes it happens. When it does, I do what it takes to end it as quickly as possible. Eyes, ears, mouth, and nose; throat, groin, fingers, and toes are to me legitimate targets. If the opponent is inexperienced, one solid hit to the throat—the trachea well or carotid artery—liver, solar plexus, or the kidneys is usually all it takes.

  “He said he’s too busy and for y’all to make an appointment.” He was grinning again.

  I walked up to Aviators—Kate followed, just behind and to my right side—and said, “Get the hell out of the way. If you don’t, I’ll move you.”

  “Oh yeah?”

  He didn’t have a chance. Never saw it coming. I whipped my right hand up to his throat and grabbed his neck, my thumb on one side of his windpipe, fingers on the other, and squeezed. He choked. His tongue came out. His face first went red then blue as his air and blood flow were cut off. He tried to grab my hand but he couldn’t, and he slowly sank to his knees.

  I grabbed his Glock from its holster with my left hand, ejected the mag, and tossed the weapon into a nearby ornamental fountain. Unfortunately, I missed. The weapon hit the edge of the concrete and bounced off into the gravel.

  In the meantime, Kate had stepped in close to Mirrors and grabbed both of his ears and was twisting them, hard. He too dropped to his knees, howling with pain, but she didn’t let go.

  “Let him go, Harry. He’s about to pass out.”

  I looked down at Aviators. She was right. His head was tilted back, face toward the sky. His eyes were closed. His hands hung loosely, knuckles dragging the floor.

  “Spoilsport.” But I did as she said. He fell forward. His face hit the floor. He groaned and rolled over onto his back, his hands at his throat.

  “Now you,” I said to Kate.

  “Get his weapon.”

  I did, and she turned Mirrors loose too. He fell backward onto his ass. I walked to the fountain, picked up Aviators’ Glock, and jacked the slide. Good job. There had been one in the chamber. I ejected the mag in Mirrors’ weapon and jacked the round out of its chamber too. Jeez.

  We left them there on the ground and walked into the building. Rösche was in the first office we checked, just to the left of the entrance. I slammed the two Glocks down on his desk, so hard that the glass top fractured under the impact and a dozen cracks spider-webbed across it. He didn’t even flinch. He just stood up and leaned forward, his hands flat on the desktop.

  He was not at all what I’d expected. No fancy uniform, just a pair of tan slacks and a white polo. He did have a holster with what appeared to be another Glock 17 on his belt at his right side, but other than that, he might have been the local golf pro.

  He was maybe six feet tall, a couple of inches shorter than me and a good twenty pounds lighter. He had a thin face, with sharp features and thin lips. His hair, mostly dark brown, was streaked with gray. Handsome? Yeah, I suppose you could say that.

  “So,” he said, calmly. “What did you do to them?”

  “Do? Do what to whom?”

  He laughed once, and smiled. It wasn’t a nice smile. More of a grimace, which turned his face from handsome to… well, I’ve caught barracudas that would have been proud to give me that look. We had, in the space of twenty seconds, seen two completely different personalities. But it was soon over. The grimace was replaced by a gentle smile; the golf pro was back.

  “Come on, Harry. You know what I meant. What did you do to Lester and Henry?” He turned his head to look at Kate. “Lieutenant Gazzara. It’s nice to meet you.” He offered her his hand. She ignored it.

  “Okay, be that way. How about you?” He offered his hand to me. I also ignored it, more in support of Kate than a need to act tough.

  “They’re outside. They’ll be
fine.”

  “Yes. I’m sure they will be.” He sat down, the fake smile set on his face like a mask. His eyes were half closed, narrow slits filled with contempt.

  “How did you know who we are?”

  There was that laugh again. It was almost a bark. “Sheriff Hands told me you’d be calling—not a fan of yours is he?—and your reputation precedes you. You’re quite famous, Harry.” He switched his gaze and stared at Kate, ran his tongue lewdly over his lips and said, “As for you, my dear….”

  She glared right back at him.

  “You’re Harry’s trusty sidekick, so what’s not to know? Oh, and I did get a call from our chancellor. Apparently she wants me to cooperate with you. Who would have thought? After all, you have no standing here, either of you. But, her word is my command, so cooperate I will. Take a seat. What can I do for you?”

  It was all said in a deceptively easygoing tone of voice, with an attitude to match. The man was obviously sure of himself, his abilities, and his position, and he was mocking us. I didn’t like it worth a damn.

  Kate put a hand on my arm, and we did as he said. We sat on two hard wooden chairs in front of the desk. That put us, even me, a good six inches lower than him—by design, I was sure: the damned chair legs had been shortened.

  Screw you, Rösche. I’ve dealt with too many other power-crazy shits just like you to allow you to pull your crap on me.

  I got up, pushed the chair out of the way, walked to the side of his desk, and grabbed a chair of normal height and set it down beside Kate.

  “Very good, Harry. Very good.” He clapped, slowly. His mouth was smiling; his eyes were chips of flint.

  “Stop screwing around, Rösche.” His eyes narrowed even further. “I’m here—we’re here, and we have a job to do, and we’re going to do it. We have the chancellor’s blessing and the necessary permissions and there’s nothing you or that pirate Hands can do about it. Now let’s get on with it. What the hell do you need with a bunch of heavies like… what did you say their names were? Lester and Henry? They look and act like goddamn mercenaries.”

  “And I have six more just like them. You know this territory, Starke. It’s wild country up here, and there are more than five hundred girls on campus, some of them very high profile. One is the daughter of the vice president, for Christ’s sake. They need to be protected.”

  That was an excuse. I had a pretty strong feeling there was more to it. But never mind that for now.

  “What do you know about Emily Johnston?” I asked.

  “Not a damned thing, other than that she was found dead in the woods a mile from here, which only goes to prove my point about the need for protection up here.” There was that mocking smile again.

  “We’ve just been through her room. There’s nothing there. Where is it?”

  He shrugged. The smile remained set. He didn’t answer.

  “I was told by one of the students that one of your crew hauled off a couple of boxes of stuff. What happened to it?” It hadn’t happened, but he didn’t know that, and somebody sure as hell had cleaned out her room. It had to have been either Rösche’s people or one of the faculty. My money was on Rösche.

  Again, he shrugged. Then he tilted his head, got up, went to a cupboard at the back of the room, and took out a small cardboard box.

  “You were bluffing, Harry,” Rösche said, “but what the hell. There’s nothing here, just school work… and there was only one box, not two.” He dumped the box on my lap and returned to his seat.

  There wasn’t much in it, I saw, just a Dell laptop and an iPad and several standard-looking notebooks.

  “Now, if there’s nothing else….”

  “There is,” Kate said, as she placed the photograph of the woman we now knew to be Erika Padgett in front of him. “What can you tell us about her?”

  I was watching his eyes when he looked down at it. It wasn’t much, but there was a slight twitch of his left eyelid. He was surprised.

  He picked the photo up and shrugged. “It’s Dr. Padgett. She’s a vet. Why do you ask?”

  “We think she was the last person to see Emily Johnston alive,” Kate said. “Any idea where we might find her?”

  He looked at his watch. I hadn’t noticed it before. Now I did. It was a gold Breitling Bentley Chronograph, $26 thousand new. I knew. I owned one just like it. How the hell does a security guard afford a watch like that?

  “It’s almost four thirty,” he said. “If you cut the crap, you might still have time to catch her. She works at the Jepson Animal Clinic on Taft Highway. Now,” he said, rising to his feet. “If you’ll excuse me, I have to see to my two people, make sure you didn’t break anything.” Again the icy smile.

  “Oh, and please stop by again, but before you do… call and make an appointment.”

  I stood and tucked the box under my left arm. Then I adjusted my jacket and the holster to make sure my M&P9 was visible.

  Lester and Henry were on their feet and on their way through the front door as we walked out of his office. Aviators, whichever one he was, was clutching his throat with both hands. Mirrors looked downright sheepish, obviously not pleased to have been laid low by a woman, especially one as lovely and deceptively feminine as Kate. I couldn’t help but grin at him. What I got back was a cross between a growl and a meow.

  I clapped him on the shoulder. “Cheer up. I’ve seen her take down better men that you.”

  “Screw you, you son of a bitch.”

  I nodded and walked down the steps to the car, nodding and smiling to myself. Life was good.

  Chapter 12

  The drive to the Jepson Animal Clinic took less than ten minutes, and we arrived in the parking lot in front of the low, one-story building at just after 4:45.

  The reception area was a pleasant surprise: pristine, brightly decorated; it reminded me of one of those walk-in emergency medical clinics that’s so popular these days. Two young ladies in brightly colored scrubs sat behind the desk, one of them on the landline, the other sorting paperwork. There wasn’t an animal in the place—or should I say patient.

  “Hello,” Miss Paperwork said. “Would you like to sign in for me, please?” She was wearing a bright blue top with little colored fishes on it.

  “Oh, I’m not a—I’m here to see Dr. Padgett.”

  “I’m afraid Dr. Padgett isn’t in today. Can one of the other doctors help? Dr. Jepson is free.”

  “Yes, please. But before you bother him, maybe you can help us.”

  She looked at me skeptically, and then at Kate, who stepped forward, badge in hand.

  “I’m Lieutenant Catherine Gazzara, Chattanooga Police. This is my colleague, Harry Starke. We’re here on official business, so, if you wouldn’t mind.” She slipped the badge back onto her belt.

  But the girl still looked doubtful. “Chattanooga? You’re in the wrong city, aren’t you?”

  Damn. We should have stopped by and checked in with Danny.

  “Kate. I need to make a quick call. Do you mind handling this for a moment?”

  She didn’t, so I stepped outside, already pulling my phone from my pocket and called Raymond “Danny” McDaniel.

  “Hey, Danny,” I said when he answered. “It’s Harry Starke. Have you got a minute?”

  Danny was the chief of police of Signal Mountain. I’d known him for years. In fact we’d worked the Chattanooga SWAT team together for a couple years early on in our careers, before he went to Vice and I went to Homicide. He was a friend, yeah, but common decency dictates you check in when you’re in someone else’s jurisdiction, and I hadn’t.

  “Wow. Long time no see, Harry. No hello? No how the hell are you?”

  “Oh hell, Danny. You know how it is. I always did have a one-track mind.”

  “Sure. What can I do for you?”

  “You heard about Emily Johnston, right?”

  “I did. You’re not on that, are you?”

  “At Johnston’s request, yeah, and it’s the reason for my cal
l. I’ve just come from Belle Edmondson where she was a student. I—that is we; I’m working with Kate Gazzara—have a lead that brought us into your patch. I needed to check in with you.”

  “Sure thing. How is Kate? Haven’t seen her in a while either. You two still an item?”

  “Er, no. But she’s fine. Listen, I hate to ask, but can you come over to the Jepson place? I’d like to run a couple of things by you.”

  “The animal clinic? Sure. You there now?”

  I said that I was.

  “Okay. Give me ten.”

  I went back in just as Kate was beginning an interview with Dr. Jepson in a back room. Kate introduced me, and I sat down beside her, iPad in hand.

  Jepson was about fifty-five, a small man of average build. His hair was prematurely gray and receding, and he wore a white lab coat that looked at least a size too big for him. His name—Henry Jepson, DVM PhD—was embroidered in red on the left breast pocket.

  “You want to take this, Harry?” Kate asked.

  I shook my head. “You go ahead. Danny’ll be here in a few minutes.”

  She briefly explained to Jepson why we there, and then asked him about Erika Padgett.

  “I haven’t seen her since last Friday evening. She left when the clinic closed for the weekend, and she didn’t show up for work this morning. I would have called her, but I’ve been quite busy….” He was silent for a moment. “It’s not like her. I don’t think she’s missed a day in the five years she’s been here.”

  “Would you mind giving her a call now?” Kate asked.

  “Of course.” He took a cell phone from his lab coat pocket and hit the speed dial. Even sitting across the room I could hear it go to voicemail.

  “Erika. Please give me a call as soon as you get this. I’m worried about you.” And he did look worried.

  “So,” Kate continued. “What can you tell me about her? I’m interested in her private life, away from the clinic.”