by Blair Howard
I took one last look at the bloody floorboards, all that was left of Tom Sattler, and followed her out into the fresh air. After the house, it was intoxicating. I never knew anything could smell so good.
Chapter 32
I drove her back to my office where her car was parked.
“Okay, Kate. You need to take that book to forensics. The weekend is upon us. I am tired. My arms, both of them, are sore. It’s been a long week and I need a break, a large drink, a good meal, and some good company, in that order. You still up for it?”
She looked hard at me, thought for a moment, then slowly nodded.
“Good.” I looked at my watch. It was just after four-fifteen. “I need to stop along the way home to get some food. What do you fancy?”
She grinned and looked sideways at me.
“Just make sure you have a couple of bottles of nice red wine... and a thick, juicy filet would be nice, with... oh, I don’t know. You figure it out.”
I did. She left to take the book in to get it processed. That done, she said she would head home to change clothes. I spent a few moments in my office with Jacque. What the hell she was doing there on a Saturday afternoon, I had no idea, and she wouldn’t tell me. I suspected she figured that if I was at work, she needed to be there too. Great gal, that Jacque. I hustled her out to her car, made sure the office doors were locked, got into my car and headed home. I stopped off at the Fresh Market. I bought two huge filets, a dozen large sea scallops, a nice bunch of asparagus, some romaine lettuce, and a couple of tomatoes. From there, I went to Huey’s on Highway 58 and persuaded him to let loose of two bottles of Cakebread Cabernet Sauvignon 2012 from his own private reserve. The man is a treasure.
I arrived home at five-thirty. The sun was already low over the crest of Lookout Mountain, and the sky was tinged with pink. It was going to be a beautiful evening, in more ways than one, I hoped.
I put the car away, poured myself a couple of fingers of Laphroaig, sipped, showered, shaved, put on a pair of white, lightweight slacks and a navy golf shirt, and then went into the kitchen to start cooking. I was already feeling better. My left shoulder was no longer stiff, and the pain from the bullet wound had subsided almost to nothing.
A couple more stiff jolts of Laphroaig, and I’ll be feeling no pain at all.
You have to love scotch whiskey to appreciate the subtleties of that finest of malts. They say it ‘gives you a big, peaty slap in the face.’ Hah. I wouldn’t put it quite like that. For sure, it’s an acquired taste, and one I spent many a happy hour and no little cash acquiring. That being said, I duly acquired two fingers more of the said ‘big peaty, slap in the face,’ and then I went to work.
It was just after seven-thirty when she arrived. She let herself in. Yes, she still had her own key, although she hadn’t used it in more than six months.
She slipped quietly up behind me, slid her arms around my waist, and pulled me tightly to her. I could feel every curve of her body. She was warm, soft, like a cashmere blanket. I turned to face her, kissed her gently, and then pushed her away to arm’s length so that I could look at her.
“It’s been a long time, Kate.”
She nodded. “Too long. Pour me some wine, please.”
I was holding both of her hands, and I didn’t want to let them go, at that moment, or ever. She looked stunning. She was wearing a white, sleeveless translucent top, a glittering black mini-skirt, and black sandals with three-inch heels. Her hair was down. It cascaded around her face like a dark, golden cloud, all the way to the tips of her breasts. She wore only a hint of makeup, a little blush and a soft rose lipstick. For more than a minute, we stood eye-to-eye. Me? I must have had the most stupid look on my face.
“Come on, Harry. You can’t eat me. Please, I want some wine.”
I grinned and shook my head. She was the most perfect thing.
How in God’s name did I ever let her get away from me?
The sad part is I knew exactly how. I dropped her hands and did as she said.
It was almost six o’clock the next morning when she left. I had thoughts that our relationship had finally turned the corner, for the better. Boy, was I wrong. I heard nothing from her all the next day, Sunday. She wasn’t answering my calls or texts. I spent that day, moping around the house, watching football, and reading my notes. By the time I went to bed, I was truly and totally depressed.
Chapter 33
When Kate arrived at my office at eight o’clock on Monday morning, she was all business. It was as if that evening had never happened.
Wow, what the hell went wrong?
We grabbed cups of coffee. I told Jacque that we were not to be disturbed and went to my office and closed the door.
We sat down together in two of the guest chairs with a coffee table between us. I tried; God help me I tried, but I couldn’t let it go.
“Kate, about Saturday night–”
“No,” she interrupted. “Let’s not go there. It was a wonderful evening, one I needed more than I’m prepared to say, but please, let’s not talk about it.”
“Okay... but, I have to know: what about... well, what about us?”
“Harry, there is no us. There hasn’t been since Olivia Hansen.... I don’t know if there ever will be again. I need time. Saturday night was wonderful. Please take it for what it was worth. Oh, don’t worry. I didn’t say we couldn’t spend time together; just not....”
I heaved a huge sigh. I knew it was no good arguing with her. She’d made up her mind, and I would have to live with it. We sat together in silence; she staring into her cup; me lying back in the chair, eyes closed. Then I felt her lips on mine, just a quick brush, and then they were gone. I opened my eyes. She was back in her chair, smiling at me.
“Come on, Harry. Please don’t mope. We’ll get through this. Okay?”
I smiled back at her, took a deep breath, leaned forward and grabbed my pad from the table.
Geez, Harry. Grow up. Get a grip of yourself. You pissed her off, big time. Let her get over it, for Christ’s sake.
I looked at her, smiled, and said, “I know we will.” I looked at my watch. It was almost 8:45. I got to my feet, offered her my hand to help her up, and said, “Let’s get to work.”
“Right,” she said, taking my hand and pulling herself up. I winced as pain coursed through my upper arm.
“Listen,” she said. “We’re not due to meet until nine. I have a few calls to make, check in with the office, and such. I’ll do it from my car, if you don’t mind. I’ll join you all when I’m done, okay?”
By nine o’clock, we were sitting at the table in my conference room, along with Jacque, Tim, Ronnie, and Mike. Amanda had arrived fifteen minutes earlier, looking like a million bucks. Kate had walked in a few minutes after her, followed by the inimitable Sergeant Lonnie Guest.
“Hey, Kate, Lonnie, take a seat; nice to see you both,” I said, dryly.
What the hell is he doing here?
“Lonnie is here,” Kate said, “because I thought we might be able to use an extra hand. Talking of hands, how’s yours, Harry? Your arm, that is?”
There she goes again, reading my damn mind. She knows damn well how my arm is. She spent the goddamn night with me, for God’s sake. Extra hand? Lonnie? Yep, nice, but it would be even nicer if he had a brain to go with it.
“Which one?” I asked. “The gunshot has scabbed over but still hurts like the devil. My left shoulder is black and feels like it has a clamp screwed down tight on it. Ah... they’re both okay. I’ve had worse.”
I flipped open my legal pad, looked around the room, and said, “Anyone need coffee before we start?”
Kate and Lonnie held up their hands.
“Hey, buddy,” I said to Mike. “I hate to ask, but would you mind?”
He grinned, left the room, and returned a couple of minutes later with two cups.
“Okay, let’s get started,” I said. “Kate, you go first.”
“First, let’s get the West
wood killing out of the way,” she began. “As you know, De Luca and Tony Scarpeta have been arrested for his death, but both are back on the streets again. No evidence; no charges.
“Second, the $350 million is still missing and we don’t have a clue as to who stole it.
“Third. On Saturday, Harry and I went back to Sattler’s home. Harry was of the opinion that the second shot fired from Sattler’s Ruger was important, and that we needed to find it. We did find it. The killer had fired it into a book. The book was then replaced on the bookshelf. CSI missed it, which is not surprising because there are more than eight hundred volumes on the bookshelves. Good job, Harry.”
“So, you took it to forensics? What did they find?” I asked.
“Not a whole lot, just two partial prints; one on the spine, the other on the inside of the cover. Neither have enough detail to make an ID. The cover itself is cloth-bound, so they found nothing else, either on it, or the pages inside. The bullet, of course, is no help at all. In short, it’s a washout.”
“Goddammit,” I said. “So we’re no farther forward, then? We have nothing, other than a half-dozen suspects, most of whom have dubious alibis, or no alibi at all, a hole in a book, a couple of smudges, a deformed .22 slug, and a few prints we have yet to identify. Come on, people. Talk to me. Give me something to work with, dammit.”
“Tim,” Kate said. “Is there any way you could enhance the two partials, make them more readable?”
“I can try, but–”
“Yes,” Amanda interrupted, “but even if you had a clear print on the book, if it belonged to someone that was supposed to be there, it wouldn’t help, right?
“Right,” I said. “Geez, Kate, what the hell does it matter? Even if we identify them, unless they belong to either Steiner, Westwood, Hollins or Cassell, it would be inconclusive. It’s like that damned hair. It belonged to Stephanie and could have been left there for weeks or even months before he was killed. Same goes for the prints. Even if they belong to one of the suspects, they could have been there for years. It’s a wash. The second shot means nothing; nothing at all.”
“Er....”
“What, Lonnie? Speak up, if you have an idea. Anything is better than nothing.”
“Well, actually,” he said, hesitantly, “I was reading in one of the tech mags in the office. I read a lot. There was an article about fingerprinting. It said how it’s now possible to determine the age of a fingerprint....” He trailed off, blushed, and looked away, embarrassed.
“Go on, Lonnie,” Kate said. “I missed that.”
He took a deep breath. “There’s a new sensor available to CSI units that can age fingerprints; tell them how old they are. I didn’t understand the tech, but it says that it’s very accurate. It measures the electrostatic charges on the surface of a print.”
He looked around the table. Everyone was watching him, even me.
“Not only that,” he continued, “they can also find and photograph a print that would otherwise be invisible. The sensor detects and measures the gradual deterioration of the electrostatic charge as the print ages. It’s kinda like Carbon 14 dating, only... different.”
I had to smile at that one.
“That’s new one on me. Did it say how accurate it is?” Tim asked.
“Yeah, they say it’s pretty accurate. It can get as close as a couple of hours, if it’s done fairly quickly, say within a couple of weeks, while the electrostatic charge is still hot. Beyond that, gets a bit iffy, several hours, half a day, maybe.”
I looked at Kate, who shrugged.
“Is there any way we could get our hands on one of those sensors?” I asked. “Chattanooga PD doesn’t have anything like that, I suppose?”
She smiled. “Not hardly. If it’s that new, I doubt even the TBI has one.”
“Damn!” I said. “If we could get our hands on of those....”
“Yeah, well. Good luck with that. I bet they cost the earth,” Kate said.
“You’re right,” I said, “but let’s think about it for a minute. We have a fairly accurate idea of when Sattler was killed. To within maybe thirty minutes, right?”
Everyone nodded.
“So if one or both of the prints on the book could be aged to within that time period, we’d know that they must belong to the killer, right?
“But that wouldn’t help any because we can’t identify the prints,” Mike said.
“That’s true,” I said, “but the killer doesn’t know that. Nor does the killer know that we don’t have one of those electrostatic sensors. So maybe we can use that to catch him; run a bluff. Yeah?”
“How do you figure?” Lonnie said.
“Let’s think about it,” I said. “We know the gun was wiped, because there were no prints on it but Sattler’s. Other than that, there is no indication that the room was wiped for prints which, to me, indicates that the killer figured he didn’t need to because... well, for a couple of reasons.
“First, because he thought Sattler’s death would be classed as a suicide and there would be no investigation. Second, and most important, because he knew his prints were already present, not just at the crime scene, but all over the house, at least in the living room, dining room, kitchen, etcetera. That being so, we can assume it had to be one of our seven suspects. If it was Westwood, we’re screwed. We’ll never know, but I don’t think it was.”
Geez, I ain’t even sure of that.
“To catch this killer, we have to put that book into his hands. The only way we’re going to be able to do that is to set a trap for him, make him think we can identify it and time-stamp it; we have to employ a little subterfuge.”
“All of that sounds good,” Kate said, “but how do you plan on doing that? We already know that the killer is no fool. We’ve been at this now for more than two weeks and we still have no idea who it is, or who stole the money.”
“First,” I said. “We need to put the book back where it was on the shelf. Then we have to persuade the killer to make a try for it.”
I looked at Amanda. “That’s where you come in. Can you put the word out that the police are convinced that a second shot was fired from the murder weapon, but as yet have been unable to find it?”
“Yes. I can do that. What do you need me to say?”
“That’s going to take a little figuring out. We can work on it. You also need to say that they are using the latest in fingerprint technology to date and time-stamp any fingerprints they may find, and that they think that if they can find a print that was made at the time of the killing, they will have their killer, but as yet no such prints have been found.”
Amanda nodded. “So you think the killer will see the broadcast and realize that he or she may have left fingerprints on the book, and will have to do something about it; grab it, maybe?”
“That’s what I think. I think the killer will panic. He, or she, as you so rightly said, didn’t use gloves, so he will think about what he did that night, go over it in his mind. He won’t know if he did or didn’t leave prints on the book, but he sure as hell will want to make sure he didn’t. He’ll want to get the book and either take it away or at least wipe it clean. He has to make a try for it. If he does, we’ll be waiting for him. Amanda, can you get something out on the news tonight? The six o’clock news first, and then, if need be, do an update at eleven.”
“Okay. I can do that. How about I write something up and run it by you? It’ll take but a few minutes?”
“Sounds good. Kate? Is there anything you want to add?”
She didn’t.
“Anyone?” I looked around the table. No one did.
“Okay, I suggest we break for coffee, let Amanda write her piece, and then we’ll discuss strategy.”
Ten minutes later, Jacque handed copies of Amanda’s proposed broadcast to everyone. There was a moment of silence while we read it.
It’s now been more than two weeks since local hedge fund manager, Thomas Sattler, was found murdered in his home o
n Royal Mountain Drive. Sources close to the investigation tell me that the police are optimistic, and that they anticipate making an arrest soon. They know that in order to make the murder look like a suicide, the killer placed the murder weapon in the victim’s hand and fired a second shot, thus putting gunshot residue on his hand. The police are looking for that second bullet, but as yet they have been unable to find it. When they do, and they are confident that they will, they are certain that it will lead them to the identity of the killer.
My source also informed me that they are using the very latest in fingerprint technology, a new technique that enables them to age latent fingerprints; to literally time-stamp the print. The technology is said to be accurate to within one hour, and can place a suspect at the scene of a crime at the time it was committed. We’ll have more on this developing story on Channel 7 News at Eleven.
I looked up at Amanda and smiled. “One hour? Not exactly accurate, but hey, it should work. Kate, what do you think?”
“It looks good to me. Will you be able to run it tonight?”
“Yes,” Amanda replied. “I’m going to need to clean it up a little, flesh it out, but I’ve already given the news director the heads up, and he’s agreed to run with it. If it doesn’t work the first time, they’ll run the clip again at eleven.” She looked at her watch. “I’d like to be at the station by no later than five o’clock.”
“Okay, great,” I said. “So here’s what we’ll do....”
Chapter 34
We all ate lunch together at the Pickle Barrel in the Flatiron building, my treat. We were all there, even Amanda. Kate, to her credit, made every effort to be nice to her. I’m not sure how well that worked, but we got through it. The group included all of my office staff, and Lonnie Guest.
Is he beginning to grow on me? Nah!
There was an air of excitement during the meal. Everyone was aware that things could be coming to a head. We ate, chatted lightheartedly, about nothing in particular. Yes, the conversation was contrived, because no one wanted to jinx the op. Finally, I arranged for us all to meet back at the office by five o’clock, all but Amanda, and then we all went our separate ways.