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

by Blair Howard

  He waddled round the desk and flopped down in the chair. I looked around the filthy office. The bed didn’t look any different from the last time, a pile of dirty sheets and blankets. Two cats sprawled in the middle of all. The other cat was lying on the window ledge, licking its ass. It would have been cute had the whole place not been so disgusting. It stank. Why in God’s name don’t the inspectors shut this place down?

  I sat down on the steel chair — I don’t think it had been moved since the last time I sat on it — and grinned at him. “People, Benny? Not just me then?”

  “Hell no. I had Tree’s two pimps in here yesterday. Look what they done to me.” He hauled his T-shirt out of his pants and dragged it up over his cadaverous, extended belly, exposing several small, but decidedly nasty bruises.

  “James and Gold? What did they want?”

  “They wanted to know about you, Starke. Wanted to know what you’re up to. They knew you were in here that night. They wanted to know if I’d talked to you. I told ‘em the truth. I said you were asking about the girl, about them. I told ‘em I didn’t tell you nothin’. Didn’t make a damn bit of difference. Duvon punched me in the gut, four times, with the barrel of that cannon he drags around with ‘im. Told me if I talked to you, or anyone else, about them or Tree again, they’d shoot out my kneecaps. Come on, Harry. Give me a break. They find out you’re in here again, they’ll be back, and they’ll put me in a wheelchair. Why don’t you just go and leave me the hell alone?”

  “I will, Benny, in a minute. First though, I want you to take a look at a couple of photos.”

  I flipped the screen on my iPhone and brought up a picture of Charlie Maxwell and showed it to him.

  “Do you recognize her, Benny?”

  He looked the image, hesitated, then said, “No. Never seen her.”

  “You sure, Benny? She’s never been in the bar?”

  “Christ, Harry. What is it you don’t understand about the word no? I said I ain’t seen her, an’ I ain’t. You think I wouldn’t recognize a good-looking piece of ass like that? I don’t know her.”

  I flipped the screen to a photo of Michael Falk. “How about him?”

  “Oh yeah. He comes in now and then, mostly on weekends, late. Has a couple o’ drinks, makes a buy, then leaves.”

  “Makes a buy? Cocaine? Crack?”

  “Nah, just weed. Enough for a few joints is all. He’s a lightweight.”

  “When did you last see him?”

  He thought for a moment, his face screwed up as he concentrated.

  “It’s been a while. Friday, I think, late. Not last Friday, the one before. He was with a dude.”

  “James? Gold?”

  “Nah. This guy wasn’t one of Tree’s people. At least I don’t think so. White dude. Never seen him before. Tall guy, big, kinda geeky.”

  “Go on.”

  “What’s to tell? The guy in the picture came in first, ‘bout nine-thirty; the other guy a few minutes later. They had one drink, talked, and then left together. Couldn’t have been in here more’n fifteen minutes at most.”

  “Has he been back, the second guy?”

  “Nope. Never seen him before or since.”

  “Anything else you can tell me about him?”

  “Nope. Except that he was wearing one of those quilted jackets, an’ a ball cap.”

  Now that got my attention. “Benny. This is important. What color was the jacket?”

  “Hell. I dunno, dark. I can’t remember, Harry. You know how it is in the bar. Low lights., colored, an’ all, an’ I didn’t take any notice anyway. It was a Friday night an’ we was busy; I was busy. Wasn’t interested. Coulda bin any color, but it was dark, too dark to tell.”

  I looked at him. He looked away. I wasn’t going to get anything else out him. I shook my head. It wasn’t much, but it was something. I got up and handed him one of my cards.

  “Okay, Benny. I believe you. If you remember anything else, especially about the second guy, give me a call, yeah?”

  He looked at the card, flipped it onto the desktop, and said, “Oh yeah, you can be sure I’ll do that.”

  I smiled at the sarcasm. “Don’t bother to get up, Benny. I know the way.”

  “Yeah, and don’t come back.”

  I walked around the block to where I’d left the car. The meter was about out. I sat inside and thought for a moment. The second guy? Who the hell is he? Not one of Shady’s. He doesn’t employ whites. One of Harper’s? Could it have been Hope? Hmmm. Hope. I wonder.

  I hit the starter, pulled away and headed home. I’d had enough for one day.

  Chapter 16

  I made it into the office at my usual time. Friday morning is usually when I gather the staff together to review the week’s progress. This Friday was no exception, but I had two appointments scheduled and I needed to take care of them first. I was lucky, one cancelled, the other was a local bail bondsman who wanted to hire us to track down a skip. I told him what I charged. He said it was too expensive and tried to stick me for a professional discount. I told him I only worked for professionals and so didn’t give discounts. I gave him a name of someone I thought might cut him a deal, and he left, unhappy, but what can you do?

  We gathered around the table in my small conference room and they laid it out for me. The weekly report was all routine, soon dealt with and dismissed. Now on to more interesting things.

  “Tim, what have you been able to find out about Willard, Maxwell and Falk?”

  “Not much about any of them, as yet. Falk does indeed work for Harper, for almost five years, mostly as his speechwriter, but I have the feeling that there’s more to it than that. He’s been dating Tabitha Willard on and off for more than a year. His financials suck. He has two bank accounts, and is overdrawn on both of them. His credit rating is in the toilet. He seems to have gone AWOL. Not been seen for almost a week. That’s about it. I’ll keep digging. Maybe something will turn up.”

  I nodded. “And Tabitha?”

  “She’s an enigma. No visible means of support, other than her allowance from Old Man Willard. No job that I could find.”

  “Hold on,” I said. “I was told by Old Man Willard, and by Charlie Maxwell, that she was in public relations.”

  Tim grinned at me across the table. “Whatever that means. I couldn’t find any record of any documented employment for more than a year, but get this: she has almost $80,000 in a savings account, and another $11, 832 in her checking account.”

  I shook my head. “How?”

  “Dunno. She made regular deposits every week, sometimes more than one. If she’s in public relations, you have to ask yourself what kind... if you get my drift.”

  “Hooker!” I didn’t like to say it, but....

  He looked at me and shrugged.

  “As to Charlie Maxwell,” Tim continued. “You said she was in computers, IT to be exact, and she is. She’s employed by a local branch of an outfit based in New York. She makes good money, in the range of 100K, and she has a tidy sum in her savings account, a little more than $37,000, which seems to be about right, considering her income. Her credit is good. She has quite a mortgage on her home — $1,820 monthly — but she can afford it.

  “As far as I can tell, she keeps herself mostly to herself. She has no boyfriends, that I could find, and very few girlfriends either. She works five days a week. Takes vacations twice a year, usually in the Bahamas, but not always. She doesn’t drink or do drugs — she has no criminal record. She’s clean, Harry.”

  “That’s all good, Tim, but keep digging, especially into Willard. I want to know where that money came from.”

  He nodded.

  “Ronnie, Mike. What were you able to come up with on Harper’s Foundation?”

  “More than I’m ready to say, right now,” Ronnie said. “It’s complicated. Can you give me a few more days to tie it all together?”

  “Yes, but don’t take too long. This is taking a lot more time than I thought it would. We still
have a lot of questions and not many answers. I don’t want to waste any more of Doctor Willard’s retainer than I have to.” I smiled. “Okay. Good work, people. Keep it up. Jacque. Do you have anything for me?”

  She looked long and hard at me. “I think you should seriously consider the request from Amanda Cole at Chanel 7.”

  I shook my head. “I don’t like that woman. She wields a hatchet, and she used it on me last time I talked to her. I swore I would never again give her the time of day. Okay, okay, I’ll think about it, but not right now.”

  Amanda Cole? Screw her.

  By the time I was done, it was almost noon. It was Friday. I was out of there. Lunch at the club with my father, then home for the afternoon. Maybe I’d go out for the evening. Maybe not. Kate was on duty, so if I did, it would have to be by myself.

  Chapter 17

  It was almost midnight. I’d been in bed for more than an hour, but I couldn’t sleep. I’d watched TV for a while. Tried to read a book. But nothing worked, not even three fingers of Laphroaig. My mind was in a whirl. Questions, questions, questions, but not a single solid answer. And then the phone rang. Kate.

  “Hey, Kate. What’s up?”

  “You better get down here, Harry. They’re pulling a body out of the river, a young guy, maybe twenty-five. I can’t say for sure, but I think it could be Falk.”

  “Where are you exactly?”

  “Ross’s Landing. Close to the Southern Belle. You’ll see the lights.”

  “I’ll be there in twenty.” I was already out of bed and climbing into my clothes, hopping around, trying to get into my jeans. I threw the phone down on the bed, crawled into a hoody, and grabbed my MP9 and my jacket. Within ten minutes, I was across the river, burning along Amnicola, and then Riverfront Parkway. I pulled to a stop just beyond the tapes. Even at that time of night there was a crowd of looky loos straining their necks, gawking, trying to see what was going on.

  Kate was waiting for me and, awe hell, she had Lonnie Guest with her, and he was in plain clothes.

  “Evenin’, Starke.” He ginned at me as I ducked under the tape, which he was good enough to hold up for me. I ignored him, turned to Kate, twitched my head in the direction of concrete walkway that bordered the river, and said, “Down there?”

  “Yes, come on.” She led the way.

  Guest followed me, still grinning like a goddamn Cheshire cat. What’s with this guy?”

  “What’s with Guest?” I whispered in Kate’s ear.

  “He made detective,” Kate whispered through the corner of her mouth. “He’s my new partner.”

  “Oh shit,” I said out loud, stopping dead in my tracks. Fat Lonnie barged into my back.

  “Sorry, Starke. You need to stay out of the way. This is police work, for police officers, (he pronounced it ‘poe leece,’) of which you ain’t one.”

  “Enough, Lonnie. I invited Harry,” Kate said, with an edge to her voice. “I know you two can’t stand each other, but try to be civil, at least while we’re on the job. Okay?”

  “Your partner?” I mouthed it silently, but Lonnie spotted it.

  “Ain’t it a pisser?” he said. “Don’t ya just hate it?” The douche was grinning from ear to ear.

  I simply shook my head. I had to ignore him, somehow.

  The body was lying on the concrete walkway surrounded by a pool of water. The ME had not yet arrived, but the crime scene folks were already there and at work.

  “Any idea how he died, and when?” I asked.

  “Double tap. Two in the head. Looks like he’s bin soakin’ for several days, maybe even a week,” Lonnie replied before Kate could even open her mouth. What an ass!

  He’d assumed the pose, legs akimbo, hands on his hips, staring at the body like he knew what the hell he was doing, forcing the photographer to squeeze around him. There wasn’t much room between the body and the water. Double tap? Where does he get that stuff? Been watching too many gangster movies. Clown!

  “Two in the head?” I asked Kate.

  She nodded. “Yup, in the forehead, probably a nine, up close. Not a contact wound; maybe six to eight inches. There's stippling around the wound closest to the bridge of his nose. The second was probably done after he was down.”

  A nine? I thought about Henry Gold’s nine. I hadn’t told Kate about my last visit to see Tree. I’m not sure she would have approved. Still, if the ME finds nines in there....

  “Professional hit?” I asked.

  “Oh yeah,” Lonnie said, with a sniff. “Had to be. Not common in these parts. Mob hit, prob’ly.”

  I had to walk away. I was trying not to laugh. The man was an idiot.

  I wandered a few yards along the riverfront, got ahold of myself, and then strolled back. Lonnie was gone.

  “What did you do with him?” I grinned at her.

  “Sent him to the car to report in.”

  “How in the name of all that’s holy did he make detective? Better yet, whose dog did you run over to—”

  “Oh hell, Harry,” she interrupted. “You know the answer to that. It’s not what you know, it’s who you know. His cousin is ex-mayor, and I didn’t have a partner, so....”

  “Sorry, Kate. Must be tough.”

  “Not so much. He’s not that bad really, but he doesn’t like you one bit, which means he becomes a total ass whenever you show up. Anyway, it is what it is, and I can live with it. Hell, I have to.”

  I nodded. She did, and she would.

  “Any identification on the body?”

  “Nope, but we’ll run his prints, whatever. If he’s local, we’ll figure it out soon enough; it shouldn’t be difficult. This isn’t New York. Small town U.S.A., right?”

  “Right.” Everybody knows everybody around here, and even in a town of almost 200,000, someone would know him. A photo in the newspaper or on TV would bring them out of the woodwork. We’d have an ID within twenty-four hours.

  “It’s Falk. I’d bet money on it. Well dressed. Dark gray business suit, white shirt, blue tie, black loafers. He’s about the right age, and the timing’s right, too. If he’s been in the water a week, that would make it Friday evening. Has to be, he’s still dressed in his work clothes, and Benny said he saw him in the Sorbonne that Friday night with a guy he’d never seen before. If it had been the weekend, he would probably have been dressed in jeans and a tee.”

  “You could be right, Harry. We’ll know more when we get the autopsy report... ah, here’s Doc Sheddon now.”

  I looked off into the flashing lights. A small man, overweight, bald head, carrying a large black case was hurrying toward us.

  “Good evening, Lieutenant. How’s it hanging, Harry? Whew. Why do these things always happen late at night?” he said to nobody in particular. He dropped down beside the body, opened his case, put on a pair of latex gloves, and went about his business. It took him less than five minutes before he stood and waved for the gurney.

  “Not much to be done here. He’s been in the water five to seven days. Cause of death? Well, you can see. You need this one in a hurry, I suppose,” he said, looking at Kate. “I’ll get on it tomorrow. Probably won’t be until after lunch. I’ll see you then, Lieutenant. You can attend, too, Harry, if you like.”

  “Maybe. Thanks, Doc.”

  He nodded, and then hurried away through the lights.

  “I have to be there, Harry, and I would imagine that Lonnie will want to be there, too, new detective and all.”

  “Good luck with that,” I said, with a grin. “I’ll pass. You can give me a call when you know more. I’m going home. I need some sleep.”

  “You surely do, Harry. This is a murder case now, my case. If it is Falk, it’s connected, and I’ll be going to see Harper, probably early Monday morning. You want to join me?”

  “Oh yes!”

  “Okay. Sleep tight. I’ll head out myself in a minute or two.”

  I left her there, watching them load the body onto the gurney. I shuddered. There’s something so terr
ibly final about those black vinyl body bags.

  Chapter 18

  It was just after seven when I awoke the following morning. I thought for a moment about Falk, and then pushed it to the back of my mind. Although I don’t have to go into the office on weekends, I usually did, but not this weekend. I got out of bed, hit the Keurig, made myself a cup of Dark Italian roast, and then went back to bed to drink it. It was not yet light, but the view over the river was a joy to behold. It’s times like these when I remember why I bought the place. In the distance, I could see the lights moving across the Thrasher Bridge. I lay back on the pillows, closed my eyes, and sipped my coffee. Life ain’t all bad.

  I enjoy those quiet moments; they are few and far between, and this one didn’t last for long. The phone rang and I jumped like a scalded cat.

  This had better be good.

  I had no idea who was calling, and I didn’t give a damn.

  “Mr. Starke?”

  “That’s me.”

  “Mr. Starke. This is Charlie Maxwell. I wondered if I could talk to you. I think I have a problem.”

  I sighed. What the hell could she want at this time on a Saturday morning?

  “Okay. Tell me.”

  “Umm, I’d rather tell you in person. I’m.... Well. I’m kinda frightened.”

  “Frightened?” I sat up in bed. “Why are you frightened?”

  “I think I’m being followed, stalked.”

  That got my attention.

  “Stay right where you are. Don’t open the door to anyone but me. I’ll be there as quick as I can. Where are you?”

  “I live on Enclave Bay Drive, just off Carter Drive. Do you know it?”

  “I do.”

  She gave me the address, and I jumped out of bed and headed for the bathroom. I gulped down the last of my coffee, showered, tidied up the fuzz on my face, and headed out.

  The Enclave is an upscale subdivision on the north shore of the river less than five miles from where I live. The drive took less than ten minutes.