Then a lot more entries about people he had talked to, mostly dead ends.
July 14: Bill seems upset about the time I’ve spent on this case.
July 17: Bill spoke to contact claiming to be friend of Elizabeth’s. He says she left with another man and doesn’t want to be found. Bill wants to close case. He says we have more important cases to spend our time on. I don’t like the smell.
July 19: Went alone to the gym and discovered a locker with a few of Elizabeth’s belongings–change of clothes, hair brush, toothbrush, toothpaste, workout journal, and a small folded piece of paper inside journal with a poem.
Joe continued to read what Steve had written:
Just a poem? A riddle, perhaps? What does it mean? Maybe nothing.
Steve had written the words on the notepad, along with the note itself tucked inside. It read:
Color, a pretty, bright red
In the darkness, toward the light;
Circling, circling the head
Blinding speed, causing sheer fright.
The hand-written letters were flawless. Joe held the note up and stretched his arm out to distance it from his face. At just an arm’s length, he could swear it had been typed. With his own handwriting so bad, he marveled at how someone could write so perfectly. As he pulled the note closer, again reassuring himself it had been hand written, he noticed an indentation across the bottom edge of the paper. Joe picked up a pencil, turned it sideways, and shaded across the indentation, revealing a telephone number. He wrote the number down and continued to read through Steve’s notes.
Steve ran into a lot of dead ends, but still continued to follow up on a few items. He had scheduled an appointment for July 20th to see someone who called himself “John Doe.” On July 21st, the only entry in his notepad read, Dirty Cop???
Joe picked up the phone and called the number he’d lifted off the paper in Steve’s notepad, only to find it disconnected. He decided to call Howard Martin, an FBI agent from Dallas, whose life Joe had saved on a case a few years back. He was so appreciative of Joe he told him repeatedly to call if he ever needed anything. They had little contact afterward except that every year, without exception, Joe received a birthday card.
Joe spun his rolodex to the M’s, found “Martin, Howard,” and dialed the number. They exchanged pleasantries and took a few minutes to catch up. Then, Howard made the offer, “So, is there something I can do for you, Joe?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact. I have an old phone number from about five years ago. It’s disconnected now, but I need to know who it belonged to back then. Can you run it for me? The phone company is so frustrating, and I don’t want it going through Atlanta PD.”
“No explanation necessary. Anything else?”
Joe, hesitant to bring up Davis, knew it would be difficult to find out much about him locally without causing a lot of suspicion. “There is one more thing.”
“Name it.”
“Will you see what you can find out about William Davis? He’s been with our department for about thirty years. I don’t want to be asking too many questions here.”
“I understand. I’ll try to have something for you by tomorrow morning. Is that soon enough?”
“That would be great. Thanks, Howard.”
“Anytime,” Howard said. “I mean it. Thanks to you, I’m alive. That incident in Atlanta was my last undercover job. My face had been out there too long, and I have two little boys who need their father. I’m just not willing to risk it anymore.” Before he hung up, he inquired, “Joe, are you in any danger?”
“Not as far as I know, at least not yet. I’m still working on a hunch.”
“Okay, but be careful. It’s dangerous when your enemy is close.”
Joe hung up the phone and went down to records to see if the Sterling file had turned up, but it hadn’tt. He needed to find out what Steve referred to when he wrote “dirty cop.” He surmised it was Bill, his partner, although it could’ve been anyone. He thought it a good place to start, but he had to be careful. Questioning another cop’s loyalty could get you ostracized quickly. He didn’t know Bill very well, although he seemed nice enough. He always smiled and greeted him when their paths crossed. Joe had spoken to him just a few weeks back when he had first looked at the Sterling file.
Joe approached his desk and stood there as Bill finished a phone call. “Hi, Carriage. What can I do for you?” Bill motioned toward the chair, “Have a seat.”
Joe sat down. “Remember a few weeks ago I asked you about the Sterling case?”
“Yeah, you still messing with that?”
“Yeah. I’m trying to help the kid’s attorney. Social Services removed the child from Murdock and now it’s looking like they’re going to return her, but there’ve been some strange things happening to her attorney.”
“And what does it have to do with the Sterling case?”
“Probably nothing, but I’d feel terrible if something happened to her and it turned out I could’ve done something about it.”
“She’s an attorney, Carriage. I’m sure she has upset a lot of ‘bad guys.’ Attorneys are just like us, always at risk of someone coming after us when they don’t like what we do or where we’re sticking our nose.” Suddenly it sounded more like a threat than advice. His voice softened a little, “Look, Joe, I realize she’s dealing with the husband of a woman who disappeared a few years back, but nothing ever implicated Murdock. I think the guy is clean.”
“You’re probably right. The kind of work Sabre Brown does ticks off a lot of people. It could be anyone. By the way, Sally Parker said to tell you hello.”
“Oh, when did you see Sally?”
“I had dinner at her house a few nights ago.”
“Do you see her often?”
“No. Actually, it’s been quite awhile,” Joe answered, not volunteering any more information and looking to see if Bill would question his motives.
“So why now?” Bill probed.
“I decided to pick up Steve’s notes on the Sterling case to see if there’s anything in there that might help me out.”
“So, did you find anything?”
“I haven’t had a chance to read them yet,” Joe lied. “I’m going to go through them when I get home this evening. Steve always put his thoughts and concerns in his notes – stuff he didn’t write in the reports. He also made a lot of crazy remarks, so it ought to at least be entertaining reading.” Joe paused. “What do you remember about Ruby Sterling, Elizabeth’s mother?”
“Not too much. Why do you ask?”
“I tried to make an appointment to see her, but she wouldn’t talk to me. She said she had nothing to say to the Atlanta PD.”
“She probably blames us for not finding her daughter. Loved ones need someone to blame when there is no perp, and it usually falls on us, but anything she says isn’t going to be credible anyway.”
“Why’s that?”
“Well, I don’t know if she went kind of crazy when they couldn’t find Elizabeth or if she was like that before, but I think she’s a few ants short of a picnic, myself.”
“Why, what did she do?”
“Her story kept changing. First she didn’t want to talk about it. Then she did, but she didn’t know anything. She couldn’t remember if Elizabeth had dropped the kid off or if she had picked her up herself. Every interview with her was an experience.”
“Do you think she was involved in any way?”
“No, she’s just nuts.”
Joe stood up and extended his hand to shake Bill’s. “Thanks for your help. I appreciate it. I know you and Steve were tight.”
“Yes, indeed,” Bill responded. In a tone sounding like a concerned parent, Bill said, “A little word of advice, kid. Stick to the cases you’re paid for. There’s not enough time to save the world.”
If this hadn’t been a case in which Steve had been involved, he might have heeded the advice. However, it had been Steve’s case – one of his last cases – and some
how he felt obligated to help out. It also gave him a little piece of Steve back. Something about this case nagged at him. Maybe Steve’s death wasn’t an accident. If, in fact, there were dirty cops involved, then there could’ve been a cover-up of his accident as well. He wouldn’t stop until he had the answer.
Joe looked at the stack of files on his desk, the phone calls he had to return, and the reports he still had to write. It would be at least three hours before he could eat dinner. He walked to the vending machine and bought a package of Oreo cookies and a soda.
Seven o’clock arrived before Joe finished what he needed to and felt comfortable leaving. Though not anxious to go home, he had nowhere else to go. Since his girlfriend, Jennifer, had left him, his social life had dwindled. Other than his workout every morning, he didn’t do much outside of work.
He had to admit that even when Jennifer had been around, he spent most of his time being a cop, but at least when he went home at night, he had someone to talk to. Joe would work too many hours and then go home and spend the next couple of hours re-living his day with Jennifer. He hadn’t been a very good listener, either. Her crisis at the Art Museum didn’t seem as important to him as locking up the scum bags walking the streets of Atlanta. Joe knew he was too absorbed in his work to make a relationship work, but he hadn’t realized it until it was too late to fix the damage.
Joe pulled into the drive-through at Burger King and bought a Whopper, fries, and a soda. He tried not to eat so much fast food, but there was nothing to fix at home. If he stopped at the grocery store and then cooked dinner, it would be yet another hour before he ate. He picked up his food and drove out of town.
The closer he came to his home, the lighter the traffic became and the faster he drove. Joe could feel the pavement on the two-lane highway below him speeding past under the dark sky with just a sliver of a moon, the only other light coming from his headlights. He gained on the SUV in front of him. The taillights came closer and closer. He moved into the left lane to pass, but the SUV went with him. The son-of-a-bitch came right at him. Joe swerved. He heard a loud crash, metal against metal, ringing in his head as he felt the impact. His car hit the gravel on the side of the road. He turned the wheel and managed to straighten it out. He pulled the car back onto the highway, but the SUV drove at him again. This time Joe’s car started to roll and the noise grew louder, clang after clang. He turned the wheel, but everything was spinning. He lost control as he saw ground, then sky, and felt his body hit the door. French fries hit him in the head as they flew by, and a splash of soda felt cold against his face. Suddenly, it all stopped.
Joe raised his head and looked around. His face felt wet. He thought it was his soda until he saw blood all around him…his blood, everything red, his arm, his shirt. It felt like someone was pouring water on the right side of his head. He touched his head with his right hand, and brought it back covered in blood. What the hell? He tried to focus, looking at the blood, at the car, outside the window, but only darkness lurked before him, except for one dim headlight.
He had to get out of the car and he needed help. He tried to move his legs, but excruciating pain and a wedged leg wouldn’t allow him to budge. He reached for the phone on his belt, pushed the call button, and the face lit up a bright pink. He wiped it on his shirt, but only made it bloodier. His fingers hit the numbers 9-1-1. “This is Detective Joe Carriage. Someone just tried to kill me. They ran me off the road with a black Ford Bronco.”
“What is your location, Joe?” the dispatcher asked.
“I’m north of town, just past the old Jefferson Plantation.”
“Are you hurt?”
“Yes, I’m bleeding, and I’m stuck in the car. I need help,” Joe said, just before his phone went dead.
19
Sirens screeched and lights flashed all around Joe. He heard banging and shouting, “Joe, hang in there. We’ll get you out.” Joe tried to sort out the chaos. He remembered the accident, the blood. He heard a horn honking. It was deafening. He managed to lift his head from the steering wheel and turn towards the window. When he did, the honking stopped. Men in uniform stood all around and a familiar voice said, “Joe, the door is stuck, but we’ll get you out. Just sit still. Don’t move.”
Joe smiled at the sight of his partner, Brett, who nodded his head in response. He struggled to hold his head up off the horn, but it hurt when he moved. The men worked arduously, until Joe felt a gust of cool air hit his face. He heard a loud screech, more banging, and clanging as they pried the door open. “My poor car,” Joe moaned.
“Sorry, buddy,” Brett said. “It’s you we need to take care of.” Joe nodded his head. Brett spoke again, “Can you move your legs?”
“Not far. I’m pretty jammed in here.”
“Okay, just sit still,” he commanded.
The officers forced open the passenger door and worked from both sides. Within minutes they had him out of the car. The paramedics had a stretcher ready for Joe, but he refused. He had to see if he could walk. He stepped down one foot at a time; at least his legs functioned. He felt stiff, his ribs and head pounded, and the bleeding wouldn’t stop. They encouraged him to lie down, but he wouldn’t. He reached back in the car and retrieved his backpack. He pulled out Steve’s notepad and tucked it in his jacket pocket. Someone yelled, “Get him on the stretcher.”
Two paramedics and three police officers walked over to Joe. “Come on, man. You’re bleeding all over the place. Let us take you in and get you checked,” one of the officers said.
Joe acquiesced and sat down on the stretcher. They put his feet up and he laid his head down on the pillow. Brett stood near his head, trying to comfort him. Joe clutched the notepad inside his jacket with his left hand, and with his right he reached up and grasped Brett’s shoulder, pulling him close to his face. He whispered in his ear, “Meet me at the hospital. I need to give you something.”
Before Brett could respond, the paramedics raised Joe up, placed him in the back of the ambulance, and started to work on him.
Lights flashing and siren blaring, the ambulance sped off with Brett close behind. When they arrived, Brett jumped out and met Joe as they removed Joe from the ambulance. “You’re going to be okay, man,” Brett said as he ran alongside the stretcher.
“I know,” Joe said. He reached inside his pocket, pulled out the notepad, and slipped it to Brett. “Here, take this and don’t let anyone know you have it, especially anyone in the department. Put it somewhere it can’t be found. It may be the reason I’m here.”
“Sure thing, buddy.”
“And here,” Joe said as he stuck his keys in Brett’s hand. “Stop at my house and pick me up a change of clothes. Okay?”
“You bet.”
By the time Brett returned to the hospital, Joe had been x-rayed, stitched up, and had taken care of the paperwork. “Hi, buddy. How you feeling?”
“Not too bad, considering.” Joe folded his receipt and put it in his pocket. He turned to Brett and said, “Let’s get out of here.” As they walked out, Joe asked, “How’d you do? Did you stash it away?”
“Sure did. I’ll show you where it is later,” Brett said. “I brought your clothes. They’re in the car. You going to the department to clean up?”
“No. I’m going to stop at the gym and shower there. There are some things I need to do before I go into the office.”
“Joe, what’s going on?”
“I don’t want to involve you,” Joe said.
“I’m already involved. Whatever this is, it doesn’t sound like you should be doing it alone.” Brett paused. “I hate to add to your troubles, but someone broke into your house and tore it apart. What were they looking for? The notepad?”
“I think so.” Joe sighed. “How bad is my house?”
“It didn’t appear, from first glance, anything was missing. Your television and stereo were still there. Mostly it’s a mess. They didn’t take time to break things up much.”
“Well, I guess that’s
something.”
“Joe, I’m concerned about you. First, you’re run off the road, and now your house is ransacked. Do you know who’s after you?”
“I have a pretty good idea.”
“So, what can I do to help?”
“I appreciate it, Brett, but I don’t want to put you at risk. I’ll tell you this much. I think it’s inside the department.”
“A cop?” Brett’s right eyebrow curled up. “Are you sure?”
“No, I’m not certain yet, but if it is a cop I don’t know if he’s acting alone or what. I just don’t want you caught up in the middle of this.”
“I’m your partner. If it’s a cop after you, I’m already suspect just by virtue of being your partner. So it’s better if I know what to watch out for,” Brett said.
“You’re right, Brett. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry. Let’s just get this guy, or guys, or gals, or whomever. So what’s the story?”
On the way to the gym, Joe gave him the Reader’s Digest version and told him he would fill him in on the details after he cleaned up. “Okay,” Brett said. “Just be careful. Go on in. I’m going to get us some sandwiches from Daria’s Deli, and I’ll meet you back here. We can go in one car from there.”
“Okay. See you in a bit.” Joe hobbled off. He felt stiff and the medication was wearing off. He didn’t exactly know where to go from here, but he was glad he had some help.
Joe took a shower and scrubbed the blood out of his hair, trying to avoid the bandage. He felt better. Brett returned with the sandwiches, and they ate them in the car as Brett drove.
“So where do we start?” Brett asked.
“I’m pretty certain Bill Davis, Steve’s old partner, is the one after me. He thinks there’s a lot more on that notepad than there really is. I think Steve got too close.”
“So we start with Bill. We need to check into his background and his associations. It may be difficult to find out what he engaged in five years ago, though.”
“And we can’t do it through the department because we don’t know who all is involved,” Joe said. He and Brett were both well aware of the consequences when someone turned on a fellow officer. You better be one hundred percent sure or you better not nose around, especially with one of the ‘good old boys.’ Bill had been with the department for over thirty years and everyone liked him. He wasn’t an overly zealous cop, easy to work with, and considered trustworthy. If they started asking questions and turned out to be wrong, they’d never be able to work in Atlanta again. “We can use the notepad as bait. He still needs to get his hands on it because he isn’t certain what’s in it,” Joe suggested.
The Advocate - 01 - The Advocate Page 14