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

by Blair Howard

  “It will come,” I said. “Play it by ear, for now. You’ll see. Listen. I have something I need to look at. Emily Johnston’s journal. At least, that’s what I think it is. We found it in under a false bottom in her dresser drawer. Come to the table and take a look with me.”

  She rose to her feet. “How are you two getting along, working together again?”

  I looked at her. The unasked question was in her eyes. I put my hands on her hips, pulled her close, kissed the tip of her nose, slid my arms around her waist, and kissed her gently.

  “It’s fine. Very professional. I told you: it’s over. Has been for a long time.”

  “Yes, well, she’s very beautiful, and you… well, you know.”

  “No, I don’t know. Yes, she is, beautiful, but you, you are more than that… and… well, there’s no one else, hasn’t been since we broke up.”

  “Since she dumped you, you mean.” She said it playfully, but I couldn’t help but wonder.

  “Okay, so she dumped me, but it’s still true: there’s no one but you. There never will be.”

  She put her arms around my neck and whispered in my ear, “Thank you.”

  She leaned back, put her hands to the back of my neck, and kissed me—it said all I needed to hear—and then she pushed me gently away.

  “So let’s look at it then.”

  I handed her a pair of latex gloves and pulled on a pair myself, and we sat down together at the dining room table.

  We looked at the front first. The outside had only doodles on it. It reminded me of a large tattoo—the name, Emily, was cleverly incorporated into the design. I turned it over. The back cover was a little different from the front. It was a riot of colored patterns, at the center of which was a single word: Kalliste.

  I set it back down on the table and opened it, flipped through the pages. Inside were a total of thirty heavy cartridge-paper leaves that might have been cut from a sketchbook. On the first was a photograph of Emily and two other girls, one of whom I recognized as Jessica Henderson. The other—I looked at the photos on my iPhone—appeared to be Autumn Leaf. The tag line below the photo proclaimed that it had been taken on Panama City Beach in 2015.

  The rest of the pages, at least the next twenty or so, were more of the same: drawings—hand-drawn portraits of young women in various stages of undress—sketches, notes, doodles, and a few more photographs, all headshots of young women, some of them with Greek-sounding names attached. The doodles were mostly intricate designs with words woven into the swirls: Kalliste, again, and a half-dozen others. It was typical of the sort of thing school kids get up to when they’re bored. Did any of it mean anything? God only knew. I certainly didn’t.

  “Any ideas?” I asked.

  “I had one just like it. Well, not handmade, but you know what I mean.”

  I did, but I had feeling this journal was a little different. Hell, it had to be. She’d gone to great lengths to hide it, and that alone made it special.

  “Any of these weird words mean anything to you?”

  She shook her head, “Kalliste looks Greekish. The others… well that one might be Jessica. I’d say they’re just doodles.”

  “Yes, but that one, Kalliste, is written several times; it must mean something, right?”

  “I suppose….”

  “I’ll have Tim check it out tomorrow morning.” I flipped through the pages. “Now here’s something.”

  I was looking at the six pages at the back of the book. The first four pages were filled with lists. Each entry was preceded by a set of initials, the first of which was E. P., followed by a long list of dates and times.

  There were more than sixty of them.

  “What do you make of them?” I asked.

  “Contacts probably. None of the dates are later than the day she disappeared, so maybe they’re a record of some sort. Appointments, maybe?”

  “Hmmm, maybe. Something else for Tim to look into. He’s going to be a busy boy.”

  She put her hand to her mouth and yawned. I looked at my watch. It was just after eleven.

  “Let’s wrap this up for tonight. What’s your work schedule like?”

  “I have to be at the station by nine in the morning. Why?”

  “I think maybe you should join us in my office tomorrow morning, early. Can you get someone to cover for you?”

  She made a call and made the arrangements.

  “So, let’s have just one more little drink and then go to bed, yes?”

  -----

  Sleep didn’t come easily that night. I lay beside Amanda and listened to her breathing. Normally it would put me to sleep, but not that night.

  I lay on my back, hands behind my head, and stared up into the dark reaches of the cathedral ceiling. The bogeymen were back: the tricks the mind plays when you stare up into the gloom. Inky shadows, vast gooey black shapes that undulated and morphed into fantastic creatures. They’d haunted me often when I was kid, when I’d scream for my mother. Just bad dreams, she’d tell me. The hell they were. Now they only came when my mind was in a whirl, when I was stressed.

  I let my thoughts wander as I tried to assess the few facts and pieces of information I had. They were few indeed, but they churned in my mind and spawned a hundred questions without answers.

  I last looked at the bedside clock at 1:33, dropped my head back onto the pillow, and closed my eyes. Only a second later, Amanda was waking me up. It was six thirty, and the bedroom was filled with the heavenly aroma of Kona coffee.

  I sat up and grabbed the cup from her hand. She sat down beside me on the bed, her own cup cradled in both hands. She could have come straight from Rivendell. The tousled hair and the flimsy, pale blue chemise reminded me of the beautiful elf princess, Arwen.

  “So.” She looked at me over the rim of the cup. “You had a rough night.”

  “You noticed, huh?”

  “Yes, I was awake half the night with you. You know you talk in your sleep, right?”

  “Er… no! Did I say anything I shouldn’t?”

  “You told me you love me.”

  “You sure it was you I was talking to?”

  “You ass, Harry Starke.” She put down the cup. Took mine from my hand, put it down too, and climbed on top of me. And suddenly, I felt much better.

  We showered, dressed, and I made breakfast… well, I put the bread into the toaster, and I made more coffee.

  “So, what are your plans for today, after we get through at the office?” I asked, buttering a piece of burnt toast I should have tossed into the garbage. Someone’s been screwing around with that toaster.

  “I’m going to talk to my executive producer. I want to do an in-depth investigation of the disappearances of those two girls. Maybe I can get into places and minds that you can’t.”

  “Hmmm. That might work. Do you think he’ll go for it?”

  “I think so. He’s given me a pretty free hand in the past, and if anything comes of it… well, it’s money in the bank for the company.”

  I thought about it for a minute, then said, “You’re planning on going up there, right?”

  “Well, yeah. How else am I going to interview people?”

  “I don’t like it. It could be dangerous. There are some really rough people working that property. We ran into some of them yesterday. It wasn’t pretty.”

  “I’ll take a cameraman with me when I go up there.”

  “Hmmm. Nope! I still don’t like it. As I said last night, Bob goes with you.”

  “Oh, Harry. Don’t be silly. I can look after myself. I’m a journalist. No one will bother me.”

  I’ve heard that before, and I don’t buy it. Rösche and his guerrillas will eat you alive.

  “I’m not going to argue with you. Bob goes with you. So what’s your plan?”

  “Damn it, Harry…. Okay, Bob goes too. I’ll tell them I’m doing a local interest piece about the history of the place. It is, after all, one of the nation’s historic places. That way, maybe I
can get a look around the place, casually work in some questions about the missing girls, and Emily.”

  I downed the last of my coffee, checked the kitchen clock.

  “It’s ten minutes to eight. We need to go.”

  I got up, put my cup and plate into the sink, and together we headed out the door. We took both cars.

  Chapter 14

  It was just after a quarter past eight and the sun was shining when I walked into the outer office. Kate had not yet arrived, but most of my staff had beaten me there. Only Tim was missing. The outer door opened again, and Amanda walked in, followed by Tim and Kate.

  “Jacque.” She looked up at me from her desk. “I need you, Bob, and Tim in the conference room. Grab some coffee and let’s get to it.”

  “Good morning, everyone,” I said when we were all seated. “I invited Amanda to join us because she’s planning on doing an investigative story about Belle Edmondson College, and that’s going to involve you, Bob. There are some nasty types up there. She’s going to need protection. You’re it. We’ll talk about it later, okay?”

  Bob grinned at Amanda. She glared at me, but she didn’t object.

  “First thing is, it now looks like we may be dealing with three murders. Amanda has done some research into Belle Edmondson, and Emily is the third girl to go missing over the last five years. Here are copies of her research.”

  I handed a copy to each of them.

  “Kate,” I said. “What do you think?”

  “I think I need time to go through this before we jump to conclusions.”

  I nodded. “That we do. Tim, that’s what I want you to do first. I want to know everything there is to know about Angela Young and Marcy Grove—their friends, parents, interests, habits, and especially places they visited on nights and weekends, the works. I also want you to check into the investigations conducted by the sheriff’s department. And I want background checks done on Detectives Hart and McLeish. Can you do that?”

  He just grinned at me.

  Stupid question. If he can’t, nobody can.

  “I’ve also listed several more people I need you to check on, including Emily’s friends—you already have the list—and don’t forget the two males, Robin Lucas and Nicholas Kyper. Finally—and these are important—Captain Conrad Rösche, Chancellor Victoria Mason-Jones, and Dr. Henry Jepson, veterinary surgeon. I also want you to pull Emily’s phone records for the past twelve months….”

  I thought for a second. “And see if you can locate her phone—Padgett’s too. I have a feeling that’s a lost cause, but we have to try. Okay, that’s it for now, but I’m sure there’ll be more. Get to work on those background checks as soon as you can. I want it all. I want to know what they ate for breakfast this morning, which side of the bed they sleep on, how often they take a leak, everything.”

  I paused, trying to get my head around it all, then continued. “Amanda spoke to the parents of the two missing girls yesterday. So, Bob, I want you to follow up on that. You’ll need to interview them in person. But before you begin… well, we’ll talk about that in a minute.”

  I turned again to Tim. “Hands please, Tim.” I waited while he donned a pair of latex gloves. “We went through Emily’s journal last night,” I said as I handed it to him. “As you’ll see, there are a lot of weird-looking numbers listed at the back of the book. I need you to figure out what they are. I think they’re coded phone numbers; you’ll figure that out. There’s a lot of other strange stuff in it that needs clarification, including a large number of references to something, or someone, called Kalliste. We need to know who or what it is. Can you run it for me, now, please?”

  He nodded and left to go to his oracle. He was back less than five minutes later, took his seat, and placed an open laptop on the table in front him.

  “There are several references to Kalliste. She has her origins in Greek mythology. She’s a sea nymph, a daughter of Triton, the sea god, and the island of Kalliste, modern-day Santorini, in the Aegean Sea, was named after her. Triton, so the story goes, presented her to the Argonaut Euphemos as a clod of earth. When the clod was washed overboard during the voyage it became the island of Kalliste. That, I suspect, is not what you’re looking for. The name is indeed Greek. It means ‘the most beautiful.’ Now, here’s the interesting part: I found a website named Kalliste. It wasn’t easy. It’s well-hidden which, for a commercial site, is more than unusual. Here. Take a look.” He spun the laptop so that it faced me.

  At first I thought I was looking at a website belonging to a high-end clothing store. The landing page showed a number of full-length images of what I thought were sophisticated models showing off expensive clothing.

  “So?” I asked, looking at him quizzically.

  “Click on one of the models.”

  I clicked on who was wearing a floor-length, white, sleeveless gown and was taken to another page featuring the same model wearing a sophisticated business suit. I clicked again and was taken to another page, and then another, six in all. With each change of page came a change of clothing, each new outfit a little more revealing than the previous one. On the final page she was wearing a bikini. The pose was classic: right knee cocked inward, hands on hips, head lowered.

  I looked at him, “So? It’s a high-end store.”

  “It’s high end all right. Each girl has a similar set of pages, a kind of mini-website all her own. They can blog, add photos, and send messages. Now, click on the little gold disc in the upper right corner of the last page.”

  It was small. So small I hadn’t noticed it. It was a tiny gold disc with a stylized figure of a woman on it. It looked like a goddess of some sort. I clicked. The page dissolved slowly and gave way to a video, one of those short, trailer-type movies. It featured the woman in the images. The bikini had been replaced by a pale blue negligee. She lying on her stomach on a large, expensively covered bed. Facing the camera, she was propped up on her elbows, her hands clasped together in front of her.

  “Hello,” she said. Her voice was low, husky. “My name is Hestia, virgin goddess of the hearth, home, and chastity; daughter of Rhea and Cronus and… mistress of the art of….” At that point, she lowered her chin and looked up at the camera through half-closed eyes. She said no more, but there was no mistaking her message. “Ask for me by name. Ladies only, please. Thank you.”

  “Wow,” I said, leaning back in my chair, staring at the now-frozen image on the screen. “What is that about, do you think?”

  “It’s a lesbian dating site,” Jacque said. “Either that, or she’s a hooker catering to women.”

  I clicked the “Home” button and was taken back to the landing page. There were several pages featuring perhaps a couple of dozen women in all. I clicked on another one and was again presented with several pages of the model in various stages of dress, all tasteful, all sophisticated. I picked another, navigated through to the last page, and clicked the gold disc. This one called herself Artemis, and she claimed to be the virgin goddess of the hunt, daughter of Zeus and Leto, and twin sister of Apollo. She was beautiful. Her message was the same as Hestia’s.

  “So how do we contact her?” I asked.

  “At the bottom left corner,” Tim said. “There’s a tiny green button. It’s not labeled, but it will take you to a contact form.”

  I spotted the button, clicked it, and was taken to a six-line form with a comment box. I looked at Tim. He shrugged.

  “You want me to do it?” he asked.

  I swung the laptop around to face him.

  “Go ahead.”

  “Who shall I be?”

  “Oh for Christ’s sake, Tim. Make something up.”

  “Oh, I don’t think so. You don’t think they won’t check? If it was me running this thing, I’d do a background check like none you can imagine.”

  “Here,” Jacque said. “Let me do it. They can check all they want. I am what I am. They’ll get all the right answers.”

  The form asked for first and last nam
e, phone number, address, e-mail, age, and gender.

  “No. Wait, Jacque,” I said. “A background check on you would bring up your employment. We don’t want that. Tim. We need to use one of the aliases. Then if they run a check, it will come back clean. And you,” I said to Jacque, “I’m not sure you should do this.”

  “And why not? I have you and the rest of the crew to protect me, do I not?”

  I nodded, reluctantly, and looked at Bob. He winked.

  “Do it.”

  She filled in the details Tim provided, including the number of a throwaway cell phone, and then in the comment box wrote, “I would like to contact Artemis.” She looked at me, then Bob, then hit send. She was immediately rewarded with a statement that read, “Your request has been received. Thank you, Jennifer. Artemis will contact you within forty-eight hours.”

  “Here… Jennifer?” I said. “Let me have it.” She turned the laptop toward me and I began flipping through the landing pages. Four pages in, I spotted her. “Oh shit. Here we go.” I turned the computer to face Kate.

  “Oh. My. God. It’s Emily!”

  It certainly was.

  I clicked the image and was taken to her landing page. She was standing, facing the camera, with her left hand on her hip, her right hanging loosely by her side; her feet slightly apart. She wore a white, form-fitting jersey wool dress. By page seven she was sitting facing a mirror in only a white chemise. I clicked on the button to start the video. She turned her head to face the camera. The message was exactly the same as before, word-for-word, but her name was Adrestia, goddess of the equilibrium between good and evil, daughter of Ares and Aphrodite. Jeez.

  “Jacque. Do your stuff, please.”

  She filled in the form, hit send and was again rewarded with a thank you and a promise of contact within forty-eight hours. Somehow, I didn’t think that was going to happen.

  “Jacque. If you get a response, how will you handle it?”

  “I’ll try to get myself a date. I can do it. I can talk the talk. I’ve been gay all my life.”