The Harry Starke Series: Books 7-9 (The Harry Starke Series Boxed Set Book 3)

by Blair Howard

  I waited. High yield? That means high risk. And I wonder what she means by “mistakes.” Bad investments, bad management…. Rip off….

  “He liked to golf and he loved to hunt,” she continued, breaking into my thoughts. “Hunting was his passion.”

  She pursed her lips, then sighed through her nose, irritably. “He was a member of the country club, as was his father. He had friends, Mr. Starke. Lots of friends, but he wasn’t a popular man, and I say that as his mother. He was arrogant, even pompous, argumentative, and he was never wrong about anything. A least, that’s what he believed. He loved his wife—though why, I have no idea—she was, and still is, a first-class bitch. I’m sure you know her. She’s remarried. Mary Ann Warren.”

  Oh yes, I know Mary Ann, and her husband.

  I nodded. “Yes, I have a passing acquaintance with her and Judge Warren.” Sheesh, now there’s an understatement.

  “Yes, well, Ellis was with Peter when he died. I should say, he was there, but not exactly with him, at least that’s what he claims.”

  “So tell me about it, the accident.”

  She looked sharply at me. “It was no accident, Mr. Starke.”

  “Yes, ma’am, I understand. Please continue.”

  “There were four of them: my son, Peter, Ellis Warren, Heath Myers, and Alex Harrison.”

  Oh hell, here we go. Trouble!

  “They were on a turkey hunt in Prentice Cooper. They’d split up, so they said, and were spread out over a fairly wide, designated area. Each had a spot of his own. These were issued by lottery.

  “It was late afternoon. Apparently they’d just about finished for the day and were wrapping things up when they—Ellis, Heath, and Alex—heard first one gunshot and then, a few minutes later, another. They said they didn’t think anything of it. That they each thought it was one of the others taking his final shots.

  “Anyway, they were returning to a prearranged location at the trailhead to meet up when they found Peter facedown on the trail, dead from a gunshot wound to the heart. Heath Myers was the first to arrive on the scene. He was quickly followed by Ellis and Alex. It appeared that Peter had tripped and fallen on his gun. The emergency services were called, of course, including the medical examiner at the time, Dr. Bowden, and Sheriff Hands with a couple of detectives. The sheriff’s office conducted an investigation—and I use that word, ‘investigation,’ lightly. Dr. Bowden confirmed that Peter was dead and recorded the cause as accidental. The sheriff took him at his word and closed the case. That’s it. Oh… no, it’s not; not quite. Warren married my son’s wife less than two years after his death. They’d been having an affair for years. Does that not tell you something?”

  “Hmmm,” I said, shaking my head. “It’s interesting, I agree. Warren, Myers, and Harrison,” I said, more to myself than to her. “Whew.” Whew? The three horsemen….

  She smiled. “You know them, then?”

  “I do indeed. Professionally and socially. Warren is a senior circuit court judge, Alex Harrison is an assistant United States attorney, and Myers is a tort lawyer, in the same line of business as my father. They’ve run up against each other more than once, and they don’t get along.”

  I leaned back in my chair and stared up at the chandelier. You don’t need this, Harry. It could get really ugly. Tell her it’s a lost cause and get her out of here…. But then: Lost cause, huh? I wonder. Warren, he’s one nasty son of a bitch… and so’s Harrison. Hmmm, might be fun to jerk their chains a little. Ah, but…. Sheesh, Harry, you’ve got nothing else to do…. Yep, and I do love a cold one, beer or case. Let’s do it.

  I let my chair tilt forward again, clasped my hands together on top of the desk, and looked hard at her. She held my gaze until finally she said, “Well? Will you help me?”

  “Why me, Mrs. Nicholson?”

  “That’s easy. You have clout enough in this town that you can’t be ignored. You can make people take notice. So, will you help me?”

  “I will, but I can make no promises…. No, no, let me finish. You need to understand that if I agree to do this, it will cause problems for both of us. These are some very important people I’ll be dealing with and they won’t thank me for dragging up the past. And, it’s possible it really was just an accident.”

  “I understand. Let’s talk about your fees. I’ve waited a long time for this. Tell me how it works, please.”

  “I charge $225 per hour, plus expenses, which can be extensive. I’ll also require a $10,000 retainer. Any unused balance will be returned to you. Okay?” She took a checkbook and pen from a pocket in the coat. Opened it, laid it on the desk, and began to write. She signed it with a flourish, tore it from the book, and handed to me across the desk. I looked at it, noted the amount, and looked up at her in surprise.

  “I’ve made it out for $25,000. I want you to work exclusively for me until you’ve solved it, one way or the other.”

  Hah, how convenient. Right now I have nothing to do but work for her.

  I looked at the check, nodded, slid it to one side, took my iPad and stylus from the desk drawer, and prepared to take notes.

  “So let’s get started then. I need to ask you some questions.” I picked up the recorder, made sure it was on, and then lay it back on the desk.

  “I need the date and time of the incident, please.”

  “Friday, May 3, 2002, at approximately four o’clock in the afternoon.”

  “Do you know exactly where it took place?”

  “I do, and I would be happy to take you there, if it would help.”

  “It might. I’ll think about it. Who was the investigating officer?”

  “There were two of them. Sheriff’s officers. Lieutenant Wade Brewer—he died two years ago—and Sergeant Ron Fowler. He’s retired. He’s in poor health, so I understand.”

  I made a note of the names.

  “I talked to both of them,” she said. “Brewer was very reluctant to see me, and when he did, he had little to say, but I got the impression that he never agreed with the finding that it was an accident. Fowler was more forthcoming. He said he was sure that it wasn’t an accident, but he was pressured by the sheriff, and others he wouldn’t name, and so had no option but to take the low road. Those three were influential men, even back then. I talked with Fowler several times; he always said that there were things at the site that didn’t add up, but he was just a detective then and pretty low on the pecking order.”

  “I take it there was an autopsy?”

  “There was. I have a copy. I’ll scan it and e-mail it to you.”

  “You didn’t bring it with you?”

  She smiled. “No. I’m sorry. I really didn’t think you would take it on.”

  I smiled back at her. “Lucky you, maybe. So, if you have that, you know the exact cause of death.”

  She nodded. “Yes. He died from a 12-gauge shotgun blast to the heart. They say he died instantly. It was, so I’m told, a contact wound incurred when he fell on the gun, which is nonsense.”

  “What type of gun was it, do you know?”

  “Yes, of course. I still have it. It’s an old Browning 12-gauge, and actually quite valuable.”

  Hmmm, I wonder if I’m wasting my time.

  “I don’t like that look on your face, Mr. Starke. What are you thinking?”

  I shook my head. “Nothing. Just churning some stuff around. Nothing for you to worry about. I think I have what I need for now. If you could get that autopsy report to me as soon as possible… well. Can you do it this afternoon?”

  “Yes, of course. I’ll send it as soon as I get home. Is there anything else you need?”

  “I’d like to take a look at the gun.”

  “Of course. I’ll drop it off early in the morning?”

  “Yes. I’ll be here by eight thirty. Shall we say nine?”

  She nodded.

  “Maybe,” I said, “if you have time, we’ll go look at the site. I doubt there’s anything I can learn from it after all this
time; I’d just like to familiarize myself with it, get a feel for it.”

  “Yes. I have time. I can take you to the exact spot.”

  “Very well, then. I’ll see you tomorrow morning. In the meantime….”

  “Yes, the autopsy report. I won’t forget.”

  We chatted for a couple minutes more, and then I showed her out, grabbed a double cup of Dark Italian Roast, and returned to my office. On the way, I signaled for Jacque to join me.

  “So,” she said, sitting down in the seat recently vacated by Helen Nicholson. "I take it you have a case to work. You want to tell me about it?”

  I sat, set my coffee down, picked up the check, glanced at it, and then handed it to her.

  “Nice one,” she said, laying it down on the desk. “What do you have to do to earn it? Sell your body?”

  I laughed, then filled her in on what I knew about the case. When I mentioned Judge Warren, she frowned and shook her head.

  “You know what you’re getting into?” she asked. “From what little I know of the judge, he can be… a hardass?”

  “Oh yeah. That’s Warren, but it won’t be the first run-in I’ve had with him. Fortunately, I too have friends in high places, but it’s not just him. Harrison is a federal prosecutor; that’s going to be a tough nut to crack. Myers, not so much. He’s a total ass, but he has no official standing like the other two.”

  “And if what Helen Nicholson says is true,” Jacque said, “it’s likely that one of the three murdered her son.”

  I nodded, sat back in my chair, hoisted my feet up onto the desk, cradled my cup in both hands, and stared up at the ceiling.

  “It’s not going to be easy, Jacque. The case is almost fifteen years cold. Much of the evidence, if there ever was any, is long gone. There’s an autopsy report. I can have Doc Sheddon go through that with me. There are bound to be photos and videos somewhere, maybe even news footage. I’ll ask Amanda to check Channel 7’s archives; they’ll cooperate. It will be a hell of a story for them if it comes to anything. The lead detective is deceased; I’m not sure about Bowden, the ME…. I dunno, and I won’t until I can start digging.”

  “Sounds like it’s right up your alley,” she said. “What can I do to help?”

  I handed her the recorder. “The first thing you can do is make copies of the interview and have Margo transcribe it, and that autopsy report should be here by now….” I clicked into my e-mail. It was. “Then,” I continued, “hmmm. Why don’t you give the sheriff’s office a call, see if they have anything left over from the investigation? They should. Peter Nicholson was an important personality here in the Scenic City. I vaguely remember the coverage. I was still a cop at the time; just made sergeant. His death was all over the news, a one-day wonder. If the sheriff’s people do have anything, ask if we can have access to it…. No, no. let’s not do that. Let’s not give ’em the chance to ‘lose’ it. What time is it?” I looked at my watch. It was almost four thirty.

  “Tell you what. If you have a few minutes free, let’s you and I go on over there. If there is anything, I’d like to get my hands on it before the word gets leaked to Warren and he puts a damper on it, or worse.”

  Chapter 4

  Monday January 9, 4:00 p.m.

  It’s rare that you can walk into the Hamilton County Sheriff’s Department and be granted an audience with the man himself. That day, however, we got lucky. Not only was he available, he also agreed to see us.

  Sheriff Steve Walker was an unlikely pick for the post, most notably because, unlike his predecessor Israel Hands, he was an exceedingly likeable individual, imposing, handsome, with a sharp wit and an acid tongue.

  “Harry Starke.” He all but shouted it as he came around from behind his desk, his hand extended for me to shake, which I did. “And who’s this young lady?”

  “Jacque is my PA, Steve. Jacque, say hello to Sheriff Walker.”

  She did.

  “So, I hear you’ve decided to settle down at last,” he said, resuming his seat behind the desk. “Sit down, sit down, both of you. Take a load off.”

  “The time was right, I guess….”

  “And to Amanda Cole, no less. That broke a few hearts around here, let me tell you. Jeez, I have to wonder though—what the hell does she see in you?”

  “Must be my good looks and charming personality,” I said dryly. “Steve, I need a favor.”

  “Ah, and there’s that charming personality. Whadda ya need?”

  “Do you remember the Peter Nicholson case? It was back in May of 2002.”

  “Oh yeah, course. Nicholson’s mother’s been in here a few times. He fell on his gun and shot himself, right?”

  “Well, that was the verdict at the time.”

  He leaded forward, frowning. “You sayin’ it was something else, Harry?”

  “Nope, but his mother came by to see me too. I agreed to look into it, hence my visit to you. You say she’s been in to see you?”

  “Yep. A couple of times—three, in fact.”

  “And?”

  “And nothing. The ME said it was an accident. That’s it. I told her so.”

  “Did you look into it at all?” I asked.

  “I didn’t. Well, I looked at the records, but Hands did all the work, back in ’02. He agreed with the ME. Accident.”

  “And… you didn’t look at it yourself. Come on Steve. You know what Israel Hands was. If he said it was an accident, that would be a good enough reason to make sure that’s exactly what it was, or wasn’t.”

  He shrugged. “So you say, but this is a busy office. You know that. I have better things to do than go chasing shadows. The medical examiner said it was an accident, and I had no cause to think otherwise.”

  I nodded. He was right.

  He sat still for a moment, staring at me, slowly shaking his head.

  “Do you have any idea what you’re getting into, Harry?” he asked quietly.

  I didn’t answer. I just grinned at him.

  “As I recall, there were three friends with Nicholson that day. Today, those three are listed among the top ten movers and shakers in the city. You sure you want to go head to head with them?”

  “Movers and shakers they may be, but they’re people, just like you and me and, like you and me, they’re not above the law. Steve, I know all three of them, socially and professionally. I don’t like any of them. They are all members of the country club. My father has butted heads with Myers several times, and he’s always come out ahead. Me? I’ve run headfirst into Warren a dozen or more times. He hates my guts. Harrison… ah, not so much, but he’s a nasty son of a bitch. Steve, you were with the department in 2002. It was high profile. So what was your take on it?”

  “Harry, I was a rookie deputy back then. I’d been on the force less than a year. I wasn’t involved in the investigation at all.” He paused. I waited.

  “Well,” I said, finally, “go on.”

  “I dunno, Harry. There was some talk about Warren and Mary Ann….”

  “Yes, Nicholson’s mother told me. They married less than two years later. What was the gossip? Were they were having an affair? If so, that could be a motive.”

  “I don’t know. It was just talk, Harry. You know how it is. You were part of the department once; the place is a gossip mill, for God’s sake. And anyway, as I said, I had nothing to do with it. Wade Brewer ran that investigation. Him and Ron Fowler.”

  “Yeah, I heard that too. How about records? It’s only been fifteen years. You still have them, right?”

  He nodded. “Thanks to Mrs. Nicholson’s persistence. They should have been dumped years ago, and would have been if not for her.”

  “So, how about you let me have ’em for a couple of days and—”

  “Harry, I don’t know. Accident or not…. It gets out….”

  “It gets out and nothing. You just said they should have been dumped, so what’s the problem? Come on, Steve. I need this. I’ll owe you, okay?”

  He stared at
me across the desk. I could feel Jacque squirming in the seat next to me, but I never took my eyes off him, not for a second. Finally, he broke, glanced away, and shook his head.

  “I know I’m going to regret this,” he said, with a sigh and a shake of his head. He rose to his feet. “Stay here. I’ll be back.”

  And he was, less than five minutes later, bearing a large cardboard box and a black plastic bag; both were taped and tagged.

  “Here. Take it,” he said, handing the box to me and the bag to Jacque. “Now get the hell out of here. Oh, and yeah. You do owe me.”

  And that’s what we did. Less than five minutes later we were back in my office. We dumped the contents of the plastic bag and the box on my desk. I took a quick peek inside the bag. It was full of evidence bags containing items of clothing: jeans, shirts, a quilted vest, a ball cap, a pair of hunting boots: obviously the clothes that Nicholson had been wearing when he died. Next, I looked inside the box and noted a number of files and a smaller box containing some odds and ends, notably spent shotgun shells and a number of 8mm video tapes, each in separate, labeled evidence bags.

  “It’s too late to get started on this,” I told Jacque. “Go home. We’ll do it tomorrow morning.”

  Chapter 5

  Monday, January 9, 6:00 p.m.

  The ride up Lookout Mountain that evening was a pleasant one. It was already dark and the lights of the city were spread out on my left like a jeweled carpet, and I was in an almost euphoric mood. I had a case to work, albeit a cold one. And cold cases, like good brandy, mature with age.

  It wasn’t just that, though. I was looking forward to a nice dinner and an evening of marital bliss. I was to be disappointed on both grounds.

  Amanda’s not actually a bad cook, but somehow the pot roast she’d prepared didn’t quite work out. The bread was hard—I could have used it to patch the crumbling perimeter walls—and the peach cobbler had come from a freezer at the local supermarket. Only the wine was palatable, and that was because it came from my own private stock.