by Blair Howard
She rolled her eyes. “Why wouldn’t I be? I know her almost as well as I know you. Tell her to come on.”
Kate arrived some thirty minutes later, dressed to kill. Women!
She said hi to Amanda, gave her a peck on the cheek, threw her coat down on the couch and hoisted herself up onto one of the bar stools. I have to tell you, I wasn’t at all comfortable having these two together in my home, but....
She waited while I got a fresh cup of coffee. Amanda climbed onto the stool next to her. I joined them, took a stool opposite.
“Doc Sheddon says the body is male, probably seventeen or eighteen years old. There’s not much left but the bones. He was clothed when he went into the drain, but most of what he was wearing has rotted away. The teeth are all in good condition; no dental work, and there’s a crack in the back of the skull, probably the result of a heavy blow. Sheddon says it’s probably what killed him. There are no other obvious injuries. He also said that the body could have been put down there around the same time as the first one went under the boards.”
“So they could be connected,” I said.
She shrugged. “Possibly.” She looked at Amanda. “Do you have anything on either the Draycotts or the Dickersons?”
“I know that the Draycotts do good work. They are very well thought of in the community. Ellen Draycott sits on the boards of several charitable organizations. She also runs a small, exclusive private practice. She caters to the rich and neurotic of our fair city; charges a fortune, so I’m told. All I know about the Dickersons is that he’s been in trouble for as long as I can remember, but there’s been nothing untoward these last few years.”
“Harry,” Kate said. “I’m really worried about this De Luca thing. I have a nasty feeling someone is either going to get badly hurt or killed. No. Let me finish. I also know you, and I know you’re not just going to sit there and let it happen, and that really worries me. I’m also worried that Bob is going to take things into his own hands. I saw that look on his face. He worships you, and he’s not going to let De Luca harm you. I understand how he feels, but I can’t go along with it. You know that. I’m a cop. I have to enforce the law. If either one of you steps over the line....” She looked at me and then at Amanda. “I’ll do it. I’ll take you in. I’ll have no choice.”
“So that’s really what you wanted to talk to me about?”
She nodded.
“I understand. I’ve already warned Bob. I can handle him. Now you also have to understand something. If anyone close to me, and that includes you, and even Lonnie, is hurt by De Luca... well, I’ll say no more.”
She left five minutes later. She wasn’t happy, and neither was I. Even the usually upbeat Amanda looked somber.
The rest of the weekend passed uneventfully. Amanda and I stayed home, except for Sunday when we had lunch at the club with my father.
Chapter 19
On Monday morning, I left Amanda alone at the condo on Lakeshore Lane and headed in to the office. I wasn’t the first to arrive. Jacque, Tim and Samantha were already there. I grabbed a cup of coffee, listened to a couple of messages, made a phone call and then went to check on Sam. The work was coming along, but she wouldn’t let me see it. So much for artistic temperament.
The day went by quietly enough. I managed to get through a load of work, took Bob and Heather to lunch, met with a couple of potential clients, both lawyers, and then I figured it was time to check on Sam once more.
The door to the back office was open, and I could see her; she was wearing a white lab coat. She was seated at the desk with her back to the door, the reconstruction in front of her.
“Hey, Mr. Starke,” she said, turning in her seat to look at me. “What do you think?” She rolled herself away from the desk. I took a sharp breath. Oh wow!
“Whew! That’s amazing,” I said.
She smiled. “I’m glad you like it.”
“You think this is her?” I asked, as I crouched down in front of the bust. It was so lifelike. The girl looked younger than I thought she would. I didn’t put her any older than about sixteen. She wasn’t beautiful, attractive, yes. Her face was slightly pear-shaped, the chin small and pointed, the cheeks high and chubby, the eyes slightly too narrow, and the nose slightly squashed. The lips were more Caucasian than African-American.
“She’s mixed race,” I said.
Samantha nodded. “Yes, I think so.”
“Well done, Sam. Great job. Just hang on for a minute.”
I went out into the main office and called the gang to take a look. They did. I stood at the rear of the group and watched. They were quiet. I understood why. It was like looking back in time; it was sobering to think about the young life, to wonder what dreams she might have had, and it was also deeply depressing.
I took photos of her with my iPhone. I had Tim take some with one of the company Nikons and had him print copies. I called Kate and invited her to come by and take a look. She arrived less than thirty minutes later. She looked at the girl, dumbfounded. Yes, it was no longer possible to think of her as an “it.”
“I need to get photos out to all of the agencies,” she said. “Maybe we’ll get lucky and hit one of the missing persons flags. It’s a long shot, but who knows?”
I nodded, and while she was talking, I emailed a copy to Amanda with a request she get it out on the six o’clock and late night news. I had an answer back almost immediately. Her new director had scheduled her to do the presentation herself. Hell, so much for vacation time.
I called her. “Sorry, Harry,” she said. “I thought it was something I should do myself. I’ve also sent copies to the other stations; they’ve agreed to run the photo, too. Exposure. It’s what we need. If you can run me by the station and wait for me, I should be no more than thirty minutes. They’ll record the broadcast and run it again at eleven.”
I looked at my watch. It was already after five. Damnit.
“Okay, get yourself ready. I’ll be there in twenty minutes.” In twenty minutes, she was ready and waiting; even her hair was done. She was wearing a black skirt, black turtle neck sweater, a scarlet blazer, and black ankle boots with low heels. It was a powerful look, calculated to grab attention.
We arrived at Channel 7 just as the six o’clock news was about to go on the air. She took her place in front of the array of flat-screen monitors and waited for the anchor to introduce her. When he did, she wasted no time. She went straight into a description of when, where and how the body had been found, and by whom. She also mentioned that Kate was running the investigation, and that I had been called in to consult. Sheesh, more notoriety that I don’t need.
She gave a little background about Hill House, its history, and so forth, and then she introduced the photograph. It came up on one of the big screens behind her. At some three times life-size, the impact of the image was stunning. Samantha really had done a terrific job. Amanda went on to describe the girl, which wasn’t easy, because no one had actually seen her. Nevertheless, by the time she’d finished, even I could see the slight young woman of mixed race. Amanda was a pro. She wrapped up by giving the usual contact information there and then; she did not send her viewers to the Channel 7 website. Her boss is not going to be happy about that.
She walked off the set, said her goodbyes, linked her arm in mine, and almost dragged me out of the building.
“Harry,” she said. “I need a double vodka and a steak, in that order, and I don’t want it home-cooked. Let’s go to Porter’s.”
I knew Porter’s well. It’s located in the Read House, downtown. I was good with the choice, mainly because the hotel offers valet parking. Yes, I know. If anyone’s going to get blown up, it should be me, not the parking staff. Oh yeah? Well, maybe you’d like to take my place.
We arrived outside the hotel and I turned the Explorer over to the valets.
We waited to be seated. I felt like a goddamn mannequin. I hate being out in public with Amanda. Everyone knows her and, sure enough, every ey
e in the room turned to look at her. Several people raised their hands to say hello to her; one man even got to his feet and walked over and hugged her. When he was finished whispering in her ear, he stepped back, looked at me, shrugged, smiled, and held out his hand for me to shake.
“Sorry old chap,” he said. The damn fool is English. Might have known.
“Hawkins,” he continued. “Eric Hawkins. Mail on Sunday. I was just asking Amanda if you’d like to join—”
“Not tonight, Eric. Harry and I have work to do. Maybe another time?”
“Of course. You have my card. Give me a call. We’ll do lunch.”
“Gi’ me a cawl,” I mimicked, as he walked away. “We’ll do lonch.”
I received a swift, not-so-soft dig in the ribs from Amanda’s elbow. “Be quiet, Harry. He’ll hear you.”
“So what? Damn poser. What’s he to you anyway?” Oh hell, here it comes.
“Why, Harry,” she said, as we followed the receptionist to our table, “I do believe you’re jealous.”
“Jealous my.... Who the hell is he?”
“He’s a friend. A foreign correspondent. He works for one of the London Sunday newspapers. I met him through work. He’s asked me out a couple of times, but I said no. I wonder who that woman is he’s with. Bit of a skank.”
“Hell, Amanda. Now who’s jealous?”
“You are, sweetie, but I’ll make it up to you. I promise. Now, please order for me, and do not spare the calories.”
“The lady,” I said to the waiter, “will have a filet mi.... Hey! What?” She’d kicked me under the table. She smiled sweetly at me. I got the message.
“The lady will have the whiskey glazed T-Bone.” I looked at her. She nodded, still smiling. “With everything. I’ll have the filet. We’ll both have french onion soup, and we’ll split an order of crab cakes. For the wine.... we’ll have a bottle of Chateau St Michelle.” Not the most expensive bottle on the list, but what the hell; it’s only Monday.
I was being facetious when I ordered the steak for her. Never in a million years did I think she could manage everything. She proved me wrong. The steak disappeared in short order, followed by a healthy portion of hot toddy cheesecake. The woman’s a... a.... I jest. She has… a healthy appetite. Yeah, that’s it.
We finished up and I paid the bill. I looked at my watch. It was eight-thirty.
The valet brought the car to front and opened the door for Amanda. So far, so good.
It was a nice evening. The air was crisp, the sky clear, and there was a three-quarter moon over the silhouette of Lookout Mountain. I drove back to my place, along 153, over the Thrasher Bridge and took the Lake Resort Drive exit. I turned onto Lakeshore Lane and....
“Something’s not right. I can feel it. That car parked next door. It doesn’t belong to them, and they’re away in the Bahamas for Christmas. Keep your head down.”
I drove on past, fast. I tried to get a look inside the car, and at my front doors, garage and house, but it was just a blur: nothing.
“Goddamnit!”
I turned into a driveway 200 yards on and then reversed out again, and drove back toward my condo. I was just in time to see the tail lights disappearing around the bend. I hit the gas pedal, but the Explorer is no Maxima. It surged forward like a boat in a gale.
“Damnit!”
They, if it was a they, were gone. Now what?
I parked the car on the road, fifty yards from the condo, and hit the remote garage door opener. Nothing. Too far.
“Damnit!”
I got out of the car, walked a few steps, and pushed the button. This time the door rolled smoothly up.
“Stay in the car,” I said. What I should have said was, ‘get out of the car,’ because she did the exact opposite; she got out of the car.
“Stay here... oh hell, never mind. Come on, but stay back.”
I checked around the garage door opening, and then the front door. All seemed to be in order. The security alarm had not been triggered, so....
“Follow me,” I said. She did. She followed me in through the garage and up the stairs in the kitchen.
“Sit down. Give me a minute. I want to check the recorder.”
One of the cameras at the front had caught the car arriving, just minutes before we did. I watched. It sat there. No one left it. I saw my car arrive, and the quick reverse as the black BMW Series 5 sedan rocketed away toward Lake Resort Drive. Obviously, the intention had not been to do harm, but instill a sense of terror, and by God, it had worked.
When I joined her on the sofa, Amanda’s face was a picture. She was pale; not a hint of a smile.
“What are we going to do, Harry? We can’t go on like this. Not for long, anyway.”
“I dunno. I have to put a stop to it; that’s for sure, but how? Short of killing him, I have no idea. Might just come to that....”
“Ooh, no. He might kill you.”
“Hey. You think? He’s not good enough.” I was less confident than I sounded, and I said it only for Amanda’s benefit.
“You still have the Glock in your pocketbook?”
“Yes, but I don’t know if....”
“No, don’t know if,” I said. “It’s not likely to happen but...” I took her chin in my fingers and turned her face toward me. “You have any doubts, any at all. You don’t give ‘em a chance. You shoot first. You got that?”
She nodded, put her arms around my neck, and pulled me in close. “Damn you, Harry Starke,” she whispered.
I knew exactly what she meant.
Chapter 20
Before I left home the next morning, I removed the flash drive from my security system and replaced it. When I viewed it the previous evening, I couldn’t see the license plate on the Beemer; it was too dark, but maybe Tim could make something of it.
Once again, it had been a night of little sleep. Amanda had been restless, squirming, kicking, flailing. In the end, I had to get up. I lay down on the sofa and dozed, and dreamed.
Once I arrived at the office, things became a little cleared. I knew I had some serious thinking to do, about the De Luca situation, but I also knew I had to go see both the Draycotts and the Dickersons. I also had a plan that might help me figure out some other things. I wanted to know about trafficking in Chattanooga. I already knew it was happening, but I wanted to know who, how and where. I needed to pay Benny Hinkle a visit.
I also wanted to know who the hell had parked next door to my condo last night.
I punched the button on the house phone. “Bob, we need to talk. Grab a coffee and come on in.”
I gave him a quick rundown on the events of the previous evening and asked for suggestions.
“Do you have any idea who it might have been?” he asked.
“No. It was a black series 5 BMW four-door. The security camera caught it, but it was too dark for it to get the plate.”
“So. It could have been anybody: Dickerson’s people, maybe, but it’s more likely they were De Luca’s.”
“I don’t know, but we have to put a stop to it, somehow. Yeah, I know. You want to kill his ass. Forget it, Bob. I’m not going to spend the rest of my days in the can for that piece of garbage. We need to come up with something else. Has Tim said anything about the dead girl? We need to know who she was.”
“Not to me. He was tapping away like a fiend last time I looked. You want me to get him?”
“No. I’ll do it.” I punched the button.
“Tim,” I said, as he sat down, iPad in hand. “What have you been able to find out about the dead girl? Have you found anything?”
“Yeah, quite a lot. In fact, I think I may have found her. In all, I got a total of six hits on NamUS, but only one of them looked promising. Heather has been taking calls all morning, the result of Amanda’s broadcasts the previous evening, but so far she’s heard nothing that got her excited.”
He looked at his iPad, flipping through one screen after another, pausing now and then, clicking his tongue agains
t his top pallet. Damn, that boy can be annoying.
“Tim!” I said, sharply. “Are you going to tell us or not?”
“Yeah, of course. Here she is.” He handed me his iPad. I looked at the photo; I was stunned. I picked up the photo of the reconstruction and held it side-by-side with the one on the iPad. It could be. It just could be.
I looked at Tim. He was grinning. I handed the iPad and photo to Bob. For several seconds, he looked back and forth between the two, then slowly nodded, handed the pad back to Tim, and looked across the desk at me.
“It’s her,” he said.
“Okay, Tim,” I said. “Let’s have it.”
“Her name, if it’s her, was Brinique Williams. Her father is white, her mother is African-American, Bahamian. She ran away from her home in Greenville, North Carolina, in May of 2005. She would have been seventeen the following November. She called her mother once, a week after she left home. Told them she was okay, that she’d met someone, and they were not to worry about her. According to the NamUS listing, she has an old injury to her left wrist and... fillings in teeth numbers thirteen and fifteen. I think it’s her. I’ve run the name through all of the relevant data bases, but other than the NamUS listing, I got nothing. The girl, as far as the records go, left the planet not long after she left home.”
“Wow, good work, Tim,” I said. “Do we have contact information for the parents? I’ll go see them. See if we can’t get confirmation.”
“Ummm....” Tim hesitated. “I hope I didn’t do a bad thing, but I already called them. They are coming down, today. They are bringing dental records, photos.... They’ll be here around two o’clock... sorry.”
“Nothing to be sorry about, son. You saved me the trouble is all.” I looked at my watch. It was already after eleven.
“Okay, I need a few minutes. They’re coming here, right?”
Tim nodded, already getting to his feet, as was Bob.
“One more thing,” I said to Tim. “Take a look at the video on this.” I tossed the flash card from my home security system to him. “I need the license plate number.” It was a forlorn hope, but maybe I’d get lucky.