The Harry Starke Series: Books 1-3: The Harry Starke Series Boxset

by Blair Howard

  Chapter 2

  I woke to a bright, sunny morning, late, but still morning, the sound of my cell phone jangling in my ear. Geeze, already? Must change that damned ring tone.

  “Starke.”

  “Harry, it’s Kate. Where are you?”

  “Still home. Why? What’s up?”

  “Still home? Do you know what time it is?”

  “Er... no. You woke me up. I don’t even know what day it is.”

  “Harry, it’s Tuesday, and it’s almost eleven.”

  “Eleven? Damn. I overslept.”

  “We need to meet, Harry. I have some news.”

  I looked at my watch. “My office. Give me an hour. Noon? We’ll talk. I’ll buy you lunch.”

  “‘Kay, see you then.”

  Goddamn. Eleven o’clock already. I’m going have to quit with booze... nah.

  I took one last look out over the river and hopped out of bed. In the kitchen, I hit the go button on the Keurig for a large cup of coffee, then went back to my bedroom, stripped and took a long cold shower. Glorious.

  Ten minutes later, I was dressed — black slacks, white roll-neck sweater, black leather jacket, black loafers, and the MP9 in its rig under my left arm and on my way downtown to my agency. I run a private investigation agency in Chattanooga, and I have a small suite of offices just a couple of blocks from the Flatiron Building on Georgia. It’s close to the courts and law offices, a great location for what I do. I work for a whole range of clients from lawyers to corporate entities, and members of the general public

  I employ a staff of nine, including five investigators, two secretaries, an intern, and my personal assistant, Jacque Hale.

  I know just about everyone who matters, not only in Chattanooga, but also in Atlanta, Birmingham, and Nashville, not the least of whom is my old man. It’s not what you know, but who you know, right?

  My father, August Starke, is a lawyer, a very good one. He specializes in tort, which is a classy word for personal injury. You’ve probably seen him on TV. His ads run on most local stations almost every day. He made sure that I got the best education money could buy. I graduated McCallie in ’91, — and so did most of the movers and shakers in this city of ours; not all in 91 of course — and I have a Master’s degree in Forensic Psychology from Fairleigh Dickinson.

  My agency does a lot of work for my father. His latest claim to fame was his successful class action law suit against one of the big drug companies. He brought in millions in compensation for local victims of the birth control fiasco. Now he has his teeth into another such case: some of the new high-tech blood thinners seem to be causing more problems than cures. We’re doing some work for him on that one.

  It was right at noon when I walked into my office. I’m not usually that late. I make it a habit to be at my desk no later than seven-thirty. The rest of the crew is expected in no later than eight, unless they’re on assignment.

  Kate was already there when I arrived, seated in one of those damn great leather chesterfield chairs that seems to be the obligatory norm in most professional offices. She was wearing jeans, a black sweater, and the same tan leather jacket she’d worn the night before. Her hair was pulled back and tied in a ponytail. She, and everyone else, looked up when I walked in and grinned.

  “Okay, so I’m late, dammit.”

  I rolled my eyes, beckoned for Kate to follow me, and went into my inner sanctum. I waited until she’d seated herself, then I poked my head out the door, caught Mike’s attention, pointed at the coffee pot, and raised two fingers.

  Now, I have to tell you, there’s really only one place where I’m truly happy, other than my condo, and that’s my office. It's as comfortable as I could possibly make it. It has all the trimmings: the big desk, leather chairs, computer, and all, but I also spent a lot of money on the decor. The walls are paneled with dark walnut; there are two floor-to-ceiling bookshelves; the ceiling itself is painted a soft magnolia color; the carpet is pure wool — dark red. The window is covered with ivory sheers accented with heavy drapes that match the carpet. The artwork, a half-dozen pieces, is original — local scenes by local artists — not worth a fortune, but costly enough. There’s also a small drinks cabinet where I keep my special goodies. The room was designed by a master. Her intention was to instill in my clients a sense opulence and success, and I think she succeeded. Kate laughingly calls it my man cave.

  I didn’t take the seat behind my desk. Instead, I sat in the one next to Kate. Mike brought the coffee. Life was good.

  Kate looked around the room. “Do you ever miss being a cop, Harry?”

  “Nope. What about you, Kate? You need to get out of that rat race, too. Come work for me. You’ll make more money.”

  “Hah, not a chance. And what the hell would you do without me on the inside if I did?”

  “Good question. I’d work it out. Don’t I always? So tell me: what about the girl?”

  “They found her an hour after we left, Harry. I saw her this morning. What a goddamn shame.”

  I nodded, said nothing, and waited for her to continue.

  “The name on the business card was correct. She is — was — Tabitha Willard. The phone number is disconnected.”

  “It wasn’t at one o’clock this morning. I called it. A male answered. He hung up when I asked for her. Were you able to trace it?”

  “Nope. One of those damned throwaways.”

  “That doesn’t mean it can’t be traced. They have to be activated, right?”

  She nodded.

  “That will tell us where it was purchased. If it came from one of the big stores, they usually have security cameras, and that means photos. Photos can be identified. I’ll have Tim look into it.”

  She nodded again and sipped her coffee.

  “How did you identify her?”

  “Her prints are on file. Shoplifting. A year ago.”

  “So who is she? Where's she from? Geeze, Kate. Don’t make me drag it out of you.”

  “She’s the daughter of Justin Willard. Ring any bells?”

  “Not that I can think of. Who is he?”

  “One of our best loved plastic surgeons. If you need to get rid of the wrinkles? He’s the man. Need new tits? He’s the man. Need a new face? Well, you get the idea. He’s been around a long time. Impeccable reputation. Rich as Croesus.”

  “That rich, huh? Okay. So, have you informed the family?”

  “Oh yeah. I went up there myself, just before I came here. I also went and had a word with Charlotte Maxwell, Tabitha’s best friend, and her sister Jessica. And, by the way, I told the good doctor to expect you.”

  “Up there? Lookout, right?”

  “Yep! It’s on Cheatham Avenue. Nice place. Must be worth a couple of mill.”

  “So?”

  “Hell, Harry. They hadn’t even missed her. She lived in an apartment over the garage. Why would anyone want a six-car garage? It must have cost almost as much to build as the home. Harry, the man drives a Rolls Royce; he owns a goddamn jet, for God’s sake.”

  “Hah, so does my father, own a jet, not a Rolls, and there are more than a few around here who own one, too. I think I’d like to have me one someday.”

  She looked at me; her expression was priceless.

  “Joking, Kate, just joking. What did he say when you told him I was coming to see him?”

  “He said for you to call first to make sure he was home. If not, he said you can go by his office. Other than that, he didn’t seem bothered about you visiting. But maybe it didn’t register. He was kinda upset.” She leaned over the desk, grabbed a pen, and scribbled a number on the blotter. “That’s his home number. He wouldn’t give me his cell. His office number is in the book.”

  I nodded. “Okay, so tell me about Tabitha.”

  “There’s not much to tell. They found her less than a hundred yards from the bridge. Her neck was broken, must have been the fall. She was wearing a black dress, no shoes — they must have come off in the water — a R
olex watch, a couple of gold bracelets, both eighteen karat, and...” she looked at me, and then continued, “no underwear.”

  “None?” I grinned at her. Nah, I smirked.

  She rolled her eyes. “No, Harry, none at all. No bra, no panties, nothing.”

  “She may have lost the panties when she hit the water.” I grinned at her. “I’ve lost my trunks more than once, making a splash.”

  “True. That could be it. She was also wearing this.”

  She handed me a thin gold chain with a pendant attached. The pendant was in the form of two serpents entwined, each one swallowing the other’s tail. It was quite small, not much bigger than a quarter. It was unique. I’d never seen anything like it before.

  “What is it, Kate?”

  “Search me. It’s unusual, eighteen-caret gold, the chain, too, and expensive, like everything else about her. Her father said he hadn’t seen it before, so did her sister and her friend, which I thought was strange.... Maybe you should check it out. Anyway, that’s about all I’ve got. Now you know more than I do. Let’s go get some lunch. Your treat.”

  “Sure, as always.”

  “Oh come on, Harry. You can afford it.”

  “That I can, but it would be nice if you offered, just once.”

  “Okay then. My treat. The Deli?”

  I nodded. We both rose to our feet.

  “Kate?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Can I borrow the pendant? Just for a day or two?”

  She shook her head. “I’d rather not. It’s valuable, and I’d be in serious trouble if you lost it.”

  I tilted my head sideways. “Okay, lemme get a picture of it then.” She put it down on my desk, and I snapped it with my iPhone.

  “That ought to do it. Let’s go.” I handed her the pendant and we left the office.

  “One more thing, Harry.” She reached into her jacket pocket, and then handed me the key she had taken from the girl’s pocket. “I have no idea what it’s for. Neither did the old man and her sister, nor her friend.” She stared at it. “Maybe it means something. Maybe it doesn’t. Give it some thought, yeah?”

  I nodded, slipped it into the pocket of my jacket, and then followed her out onto the street. It’s always nice to follow Kate. She has a great ass.

  The Flatiron Deli is housed in the building that bears the same name, just a couple of blocks away from my office, very handy, and the food is good, too. They make the best BLT in town. I ordered one of those with a cup of coffee. Kate had a Muffaletta, a Coke, and a loaded baked potato to go with it. How does she do that? Eat all those calories and keep the weight off.

  We sat opposite each other in a booth. We ate quietly for a while, then both talked at once.

  I smiled at her. “Ladies first.”

  “I was about to tell you that we found her car. It was parked in the multi-story near the Aquarium. It was clean, Harry, and by clean I mean it had been wiped; it was spotless.”

  “Hmmm.”

  She nodded. “What about those two you saw her with in the bar? You said you’ve never seen them before?”

  “No, I haven’t. They were a weird pair. For some reason, they reminded me of Stimpy and Ren.” She smiled at that. “One was a tall, well-built guy, black, with slicked back hair, arrogant. The smaller guy was clean shaven, lighter skinned, assertive. I got the feeling that he was running the show. I couldn’t hear what they were talking about, but I could tell that they were arguing. She was holding her own, though.”

  I looked at my watch. It was almost two o’clock.

  “Kate, I think I’ll head down that way, to the Sorbonne, see if I can find out anything from Benny Hinkle. He was running the bar last night. You done?”

  She got up from the booth. “Good idea. Call me later. Let me know if you find out anything. When do you expect to go see Willard?”

  “I was thinking I’d head up that way early this evening. You wanna go?”

  “Can’t. Hot date. Don’t forget to call him first.” She leaned over, pecked me on the cheek, and then walked quickly out of the Deli. You guessed it. She stiffed me for the tab, and the tip. I had to grin. She’s a rare one. And then it hit me. Hot date? What was that about? Kate never dates. Well, just me, I think.

  I returned to my office, gave Tim the phone number on Tabitha Willard’s card, and asked him to see if he could track it down. I made a couple of calls, then headed out again.

  Chapter 3

  I parked my car next to a meter on Broad and walked the few blocks to the bar. The Sorbonne was dark inside. The sign on the door gave the hours as “4pm until whenever.” It wasn’t a joke. It was still early afternoon. I looked at my watch: two-thirty. I walked to the end of the block, turned left into the alley, and then left again. Two doors down, I found the rear door and rang the bell.

  I heard the sound of locks being turned. The door opened six inches and an eye appeared in the gap.

  “Hello, Benny,” I said, giving the door a shove. The door flew open and Benny staggered back several feet. I went in and pushed the door shut.

  “Whadda ya want, Starke? We ain’t open for two more hours yet.”

  Benny Hinkle is actually the owner of the Sorbonne. He’s been running it for years. He’s also known me for years, since I was a cop, in fact. Oh yeah, he knew me all right. He never liked me, but then he never liked any cops. Now he likes me even less, mostly because he knows that now I’ve gone private, I don’t have to follow the rules. He does, however, respect muscle and attitude. I have plenty of both, as he’d learned several times in the past, and much to his regret. He would have barred me from the Sorbonne, if he could, but he didn’t have the balls to try it.

  “I know that, Benny. I just want to ask a few questions, okay?”

  He looked guardedly at me through shifty, half-closed eyes. “What questions? I don’t know nothin’ an’ I wouldn’t say if I did.”

  “Let’s go and sit down somewhere comfortable, Benny. Your office, maybe?”

  He hesitated, nodded, and then turned and walked a couple of steps, pushed open a door, and walked inside.

  Geeze, what a mess. How can anyone live and work like this?

  The filthy, cluttered rat’s nest included several empty pizza boxes, a half-dozen of them stacked on top of a file cabinet. The desk was inches deep in papers, bills, delivery notes, newspapers, and what looked like the remains of at least two meals. There was an iron bed against the wall under the window. The window was hung with rags that must have been curtains in the distant past. The place stank of cats; there were three of them curled up together on the unmade bed. At least a dozen beer crates, soft drink crates, and cardboard boxes full of empty wine and liquor bottles were stacked against the walls. The floor was littered with cat food, and the two litter boxes looked as if they hadn’t been cleaned in a month. Christ. The man is a pig.

  “So, whadda ya want, Starke?”

  Phuttt! The seat cushion almost exploded as he dropped his fat ass down into the chair behind his desk, leaned on his elbows, and ran his fingers through his greasy brown hair.

  I sat down on the only other chair in the room, one of those steel things that fold up so they can be stored.

  “You been to bed yet, Benny? You look like shit.”

  “Yeah, well. I got lots to do, an’ no time to do it. I’ll maybe take a nap when Lorie gets here. Nothin’ much happens ‘till after ten, as you well know. Come on, Starke. Spill it. What do you want?”

  “I was in here last night, Benny. Remember?”

  He nodded. “How could I forget?”

  “Do you remember the girl in the black dress and white coat?”

  “Come on, Harry. There were lots of girls in here last night. You know that. You were here, for God’s sake. The place was packed.”

  “Yes, I was, Benny. And so were you. This was around midnight. She had dark red hair and an expensive white coat. She was with a couple of brothers. Nasty-lookin’ types.”

  “Oh yeah
, I remember her. Who wouldn’t? She was hot.”

  “Yeah, well, she’s not so hot now. She’s cold. She’s dead. What do you know about her?”

  “Dead? Dead? How? I don’t know nothin’, not a thing. I ain’t never seen her before. Who killed her?”

  “Nobody killed her, Benny. She threw herself off the bridge. So. What about the brothers?”

  “Killed herself, huh? Wow! Um....” He hesitated. “Nothin’. I ain’t never seen ‘em before either.” He looked away as he said it.

  I said nothing. I just sat there and watched his face.

  “What?” he said, when he gathered up enough courage to look me in the eyes again.

  “You’re about as transparent as that window, Benny. Maybe more so. It’s filthy. Now tell me the truth.”

  “Screw you, Starke. I don’t have tell you nothin’. Get the hell out of my office, and stay outta the bar, too.”

  I sat there for a moment, contemplating his fat face, then I nodded and rose to my feet. But I didn’t leave. I walked around the desk, reached inside my jacket, pulled out the MP9, and sat down on the desk facing him.

  “Whoa.” He leaned away from me, his eyes wide, his hands in front of him, fingers spread.

  “Now then, Benny. There are two ways we can do this; either way you’ll tell me what I want to know. So, what do you think? Painful or not?”

  “Harry, I swear I don’t know those two guys. I barely even noticed ‘em.”

  I nodded, and then tapped him gently on the bridge of his nose with the barrel of the nine.

  “Ow, ow, ow,” he yelled. “That hurt, you son of a bitch.”

  “I asked you, Benny... painful or not? You chose painful.” I tapped him again.

  “Goddamn it, Harry. Quit it. You’ll bust my nose.”

  “Yup, it’s quite likely I will. You ready to talk?”

  “I told ya, I don’t know who they are.”

  Smack! This time I laid the flat side of the gun hard against his ear.