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

by Blair Howard

  “And then we come right to the present. Our friend, the erstwhile Reverend William Dickerson is back at it. You know he has a place on Cherry, right?”

  I nodded.

  “At the last count,” she continued, “he was housing fourteen young girls and women aged fifteen to twenty-one, plus five young girls aged between eleven and fourteen, and six young men, all of them, and I quote, homeless. It seems the reverend has built himself quite a dedicated little following.”

  She paused, took a sip of coffee, looked at me, and winked.

  ““Are there no concerns by the authorities that a known procurer is running a facility for homeless girls?” Heather asked.

  “Apparently not,” I said, “and that’s a problem in itself. Sorry, Amanda. Go on.”

  “Oh you’ll love this,” she said. “He has a staff of eight, if you can call them that. His wife, India, manages the running of the place and the finances. He employs three ‘handymen,’ and I use that word loosely, Darius ‘Romeo’ Willett, Woody Handles, and Mickey Donavan, known among his peers as The Mouse, and a driver, Jack Harris.”

  “Hah,” I said. “I know him. He’s a little weasel. They call him Little Jacky. I’ve seen him at the Sorbonne. Always accompanied by a woman, skanky-looking, older than him; a lot older. Strange pair.”

  “There’s also a cook,” Amanda continued, “Wanda Grindel, two housekeepers and two maids, all four are sort of girl Fridays, who handle general cleaning and serving meals. Back in the late 1880s, an establishment like this would have been called a workhouse. Today, it’s a shelter and, I shouldn’t wonder, the beginning of the end for many a disenfranchised young girl. Dickerson is a... procurer, pure and simple. He needs to be stopped.”

  She closed the cover on her iPad and looked across the desk at me. “That’s all I have. There’s much more, I’m sure, but it’s beyond me. You, Harry, I’m sure, can get Kate to access his file at the PD.”

  I’m not sure I like the way she said that. What’s she getting at, I wonder?

  “One more thing,” she said, almost as an afterthought. “He has some very wicked friends. Some of whom you all know, including Sal De Luca.”

  I nodded. “Yeah, we knew that. Let’s hope we can stay out of his way. I don’t need another run in with that son of a bitch.”

  I looked at my watch. It was after four o’clock. I hadn’t heard a word from Kate. Damn!

  “Okay,” I said. “Let’s wrap this up. I need to get out of here. Things to do. Tomorrow, we’ll start making the rounds of the principal players, namely Dickerson and the Draycotts. Anyone have anything to add? No? Good. Bob, I want you to work with Tim. I need to know everything there is to know about Willett, Donavan and Little Jacky in particular. You can also continue to dig into the Draycotts’ history. That’s it. Have a good one.”

  They all left the office, with exception of Amanda, who remained seated, a somewhat mocking smile on her lips.

  “Things to do?” she asked, as Mike closed the door behind him. “Anyone I know?”

  I grinned at her. I never knew exactly what she was thinking when she spoke like that. She certainly wasn’t the jealous type, although I’ve known her to get waspy once in a while, especially where Kate’s concerned.

  “Yes. I’m meeting Kate at the club, to discuss the case and... dinner.”

  “And for dessert? Something nice, I hope.” There was no mistaking what she meant. She still wore the mocking smile, but her face had hardened. Oh shit. Who said honesty was the best policy?

  “No, Amanda; no dessert, just dinner.”

  “That’ll be the day.” She uncrossed her legs, gifting me with a view of, well, you know, and rose from her seat. The smile was gone. “Have a good evening. You know where to find me... if you need me.” Sarcasm? Innuendo? What?

  “Amanda—”

  “Call me tomorrow,” she interrupted, and then she grabbed her iPad from my desk and walked out of the office.

  Okay. That’s it. I’ve got to figure this crap out. I have enough to cope with without having to contend with two pissed-off women. Life’s too goddamn short.

  I grabbed my cell and called Kate.

  “Hey,” I said when she answered. “I thought you were going to call me back. We going to eat or what?”

  “Damn, who kicked your cat? I didn’t call you back because I don’t have anything yet. Yes, we’re going to eat. I’ll meet you at the club at seven.”

  “No. I’ll pick you up.”

  “No. You won’t. I need to get home before ten, and I need to drive myself. I know you. If I let you drive, it’ll turn into an all-night thing. I have a full case load and I need to get some rest. I’ll meet you there at seven.”

  “But—”

  “Seven o’clock. Bye, Harry.” Click. Goddamn it. Geeze. What the hell is it with these women?

  I picked up the desk phone and buzzed Jacque. I asked her to call Doctor Draycott and see if she could make an appointment for me to see him the next afternoon. Then I sat back in my chair and flipped through my notes. Two minutes later, the phone buzzed and Jacque informed me that I had an appointment with both Doctors Draycott at two-fifteen tomorrow afternoon. I made note of it, gathered my stuff together, and headed home, still in a foul mood.

  Chapter 7

  I awoke early the following morning. No, I awoke very early, at four o’clock, and I couldn’t go back to sleep. I felt lousy. I’d had too much to drink the night before, and dinner with Kate had not gone well. My fault. It must have been my conflicted interests — Kate and Amanda — but I was in a terrible mood the whole evening. Hell, I even snapped at my father, and he certainly didn’t deserve it. Kate put up with my mood through an early meal and was out of there well before ten.

  I went home, grabbed the bottle of Laphroaig Quarter Cask Scotch Whiskey and a glass from the bar, flopped down on the sofa, and stared out of the window. The weather had turned ugly and matched my mood perfectly. The surface of the river, black and turbulent, was whipped to foam by the wind and rain that battered the glass of the floor-to-ceiling windows. When I finally turned in, it was after midnight, and three-fourths of the bottle of scotch was no more than a bleary memory. I slept fitfully until I could suffer it no more.

  By seven o’clock, I’d showered, shaved, and dressed to suit my mood: black, long-sleeved dress shirt, black jeans, and black Bruno Magli Raspino boots. I scrambled some eggs, drank two cups of black coffee, climbed into my DeSantis shoulder rig, checked the Smith and Wesson M&P9, and put on a slick, black all-weather golf jacket. I looked and felt like the Grim Reaper, and it didn’t make me feel any better, but what the hell. Finally, I slipped into my heavy Fjallraven Keb Hybrid Fleece coat. I might feel like shit, but I sure as hell was going to be warm doing it.

  Minutes later, I was out of the condo and driving across the Thrasher Bridge in what can only be described as a monsoon. The wipers were at full speed, pounding the bulkhead, and with little effect. The rain was coming down in sheets; visibility was down to just a few yards. Shit. I should have waited this mess out.

  It was just before eight o’clock when I pulled up outside the office parking lot. I sat and stared at the closed gates, then banged my hands on the wheel in frustration. Damn and blast. Nobody ever closes the f… the goddamn gate. Now it’s bucketing down, and they decide to play by the rules. Damn, damn, damn.

  I got out into the downpour and unlocked and opened the gates. By the time I got back into my car, I was soaked, and my mood, already as black as I thought it could possibly be, got even blacker.

  By the time I’d parked the car, closed the gates — no I didn’t lock ‘em, damn it — and unlocked the side door to the office, I was in no mood for anyone. I punched up a double cup of black coffee, went to my office, closed the door behind me and locked it. Then I threw off the heavy coat and settled into my chair with the coffee in hand. I have got to sort this shit out.

  No sooner had the thought entered my head when the desk phone buzzed. God
damn it!

  I picked up. “Jacque. I do not want to be disturbed for the next hour. Got that?”

  “Sure, Boss,” Bob growled, and disconnected. I didn’t give a shit.

  I gave it a couple of minutes, then buzzed him back. “Sorry, Bob. What do you need?”

  “Are you going visiting today? If so, I thought you might like some company.”

  I thought about if for a moment. “How are you progressing with the Callahan case?”

  “Nothing to do now but wait. Listen, I have other things I can do.”

  “No,” I interrupted him. “I’m going to see Dickerson. Wouldn’t hurt to have some company but... what about your ankle?”

  “It’s a bit stiff, painful, but I can manage. I have my stick.” I had to smile at that. Bob is a quiet man, but he carries a big stick (pun intended). It’s usually a ball bat.

  I looked at my watch. It was still only eight-forty-five. “Were you able to dig up anything on Callahan?”

  “Not much. I can fill you in later.”

  “Okay. Give me an hour. I have some calls to make.”

  I grabbed my cell phone and hit the speed dial. Kate answered almost immediately.

  “So,” she said. “You and Amanda have a good time last night?”

  “Christ, Kate. Let’s not do this. I went straight home after you left. I feel lousy; I’ve had a lousy start to the day, and I’m heading into what promises to be a lousy morning to meet some lousy people. Happy?”

  “I see. What can I do for you, Harry?” Her voice was cold, and I didn’t give a shit.

  “What do you have for me? I’m going to see Dickerson. I need all you have.”

  “You have all I have. I have two people on it. If they find anything, you’ll be the first to know.”

  “Fine. I’ll talk to you later.” I hung up without bothering to say goodbye. Shit. I’ll regret that for sure.

  Chapter 8

  It was a little after ten-thirty when Bob and I left the office. The ancient, two-story building that housed Blessed are the Homeless — Wow. That’s a real misnomer for sure — stood by itself on Cherry Street, less than a half dozen blocks from my offices on Georgia. The drive, even though the rain was still coming down in buckets, took less than two minutes. I pulled into the lot at the right side of the building and parked in one of the spots marked ‘Visitors’.

  Looking at the old building, I had to wonder why it hadn’t been torn down long ago. Seems our soon-to-be friend, Billy Dickerson, had a penchant for derelicts, edifice and human. Back in the day, before the turn of the century, it must have been a mill of some sort. Today, other than a few patches of graffiti on the front door and walls along the sidewalk, it was fairly clean, but weathered; a lonely, brick-built cube with huge windows, each one divided into nine smaller squares of glass, some of them broken. Set against an angry sky and the driving rain, surrounded by acres of concrete upon which a variety of vehicles in various states of repair sat like huge metal insects, it was a depressing pile. I shuddered to think what might be going on inside. My already dark mood turned even darker.

  Fire escapes? There were none. The front door had a padlock and chain on it. Two safety violations and we’re not even inside yet. The two other doors, one at the north side and one at the rear, were steel, locked, no handles, just bell pushes. We chose the door nearest to the car and turned our backs to the rain. Bob leaned on his stick and looked at me; I shrugged, reached out, and pushed.

  A few minutes later, we heard the sounds of the locks turning and the door opened an inch or two.

  “Yeah. Wadda ya want?”

  “We’d like a few words with the Reverend Dickerson, please,” I said, politely.

  “He ain’t heah.” The door started to close. Bob hit it with his shoulder. It slammed back into whoever was on the other side. There was a squeal of pain. Bob pushed the heavy door and it squeaked on its hinges. It was dark inside, but not so dark we couldn’t see the man on his ass on the concrete floor of the passageway.

  He was rubbing his forehead. “Hey, man. What you problem is? I toll you Mr. Dickerson he ain’t heah. You hurt me, man.”

  Bob stepped up, grabbed his arm with his free hand, and hauled him to his feet. He was young, nineteen or twenty, skinny, dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, both of which needed laundering.

  “Lead on, Sonny,” Bob said, as he let go of his arm and spun him around.

  The boy staggered a couple of steps. “Lead on? Wha’ you mean, lead on?”

  “Take us to Mr. Dickerson, and be quick about it,” I said.

  “He—”

  “Take us,” I said, interrupting him. “If you don’t, my friend here will break your arm.”

  That did it. He led the way to a set of concrete stairs at the far end of the passageway. They led up into a large room that was not at all what I was expecting. It covered at least two-thirds of what I assumed was the second floor, and was bright and airy. The musty smell of the lower level was absent. High ceilings had strip lights every ten feet or so. Carpet, albeit cheap, covered the floor, and was reasonably clean. A large reception desk was situated just beyond the head of the stairs. Four doors along the rear wall provided access to what I supposed must be offices. The great room was furnished with a variety of old but serviceable furniture. I counted eight sofas of one sort or another, some of them occupied by youngsters of both genders, and a half dozen coffee tables. There was a coffee station next to the reception desk.

  The woman behind the desk looked to be about forty-five, and she was formidable, tall, with a nice figure, although a little on the heavy side. Her hair was dyed a weird reddish color, and hung in ringlets down her back.

  “Raymond?” She looked first at the boy, then at Bob, then at me.

  “They made me brung ‘em up heah, Miz Dickerson.” Miz Dickerson. Must be India.

  “Mrs. Dickerson,” I said, stepping forward and offering her my hand. “I’m Harry Starke, a licensed private investigator, and this is my associate, Bob Ryan.”

  She took my hand, squeezed gently, and then let go. “What can I do for you, Mr. Starke?”

  “I’d like to have a word with your husband.”

  “I’m afraid that won’t be possible. He’s asked not to be disturbed. Would you like to make an appointment for another day?” She picked up a pen and opened a desk planner. “I have fifteen minutes open at ten o’clock on January 22.”

  Bob snorted, and I grinned. “Nice try, India. Tell him we’re here.”

  “No.”

  I pursed my lips, nodded, looked at Bob, and nodded again. Now you have to understand that while Bob is as tall as I am — we’re both six feet two — he weighs 242 pounds to my 210. If they were looking for someone to play the Incredible Hulk, Bob would fit the bill.

  He walked across the room to the first of the doors and knocked. There was no answer. He opened it and looked inside.

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” India yelled. “You can’t do that. I’ll call the cops.”

  “Fine,” I said, handing her a card. “Try this number first.” The card was one of Kate’s. “I’m sure Lieutenant Gazzara will explain the urgency of our visit, and the need for you and Billy to cooperate.”

  She took the card, looked at it, and then picked up the phone and punched in a number.

  “Billy,” she said. “There are two private detectives out here. I think you need to see them. No, I mean right now. Yes, two of them.... No, Billy, if you don’t see them, I think they will see you.”

  She put the phone down, smiled sweetly, and got to her feet. “Raymond,” her voice was acid, “take the desk, and don’t let anyone else in. You got that?”

  The boy, obviously frightened, replaced her behind the desk, and she headed away toward the far end of the room, her hips and arms swinging as she went. She was wearing jeans and shoes with high heels. Wow. Now that’s a great ass.

  She reached the door at the far end of the room, turned the knob, pushed it
open, and then stood to one side to allow us to enter.

  The Reverend William Dickerson, fifty-nine years old, was a small man, not more than five feet eight inches tall. The mug shot of seven years ago did him little justice; he was, in fact, quite a handsome man. Dressed casually in a red, white, and blue checked short-sleeve shirt, baggy blue jeans with suspenders, and heavy black boots that might or might not have had steel toecaps, he looked like he’d just stepped down off a farm tractor.

  His face was thinner than it was in the photo, drawn and more heavily lined. His hair was almost white, cut short, neatly trimmed. His eyes were beady and deep-set under heavily hooded white eyebrows. His nose was a little crooked. At some time in the past it must have been broken, but whoever fixed it had done a good job. His small mouth and thin lips were surrounded by a white mustache and goatee, and he had a look about him that was both benign and friendly; he looked like someone’s dear old granddad. Yep, looks can be deceptive.

  “Good morning, gentlemen. Good of you to drop by,” he said, caustically. “Take a seat.” He came around from behind his desk, waving a hand at a group of five comfortable chairs. “India, tell Darius to get in here.” She nodded, left the room, and closed the door behind her.

  “Now, what the hell do you two want?” he asked, angrily. “You ain’t the cops. I don’t have to talk to you.”

  Bob and I sat, and Dickerson did, too, facing us.

  “We’re here to talk to you about Hill House,” I said.

  His jaw dropped, he screwed up his eyes, and leaned forward in his chair, his elbows on his knees. “Whaaat? Hill House? That was more than ten years ago. It was a dump. I thought they’d pulled it down.”

  “Soon, Mr. Dickerson, soon. What were you doing there in those days?”