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

by Blair Howard

  “Harry? Harry!”

  “Huh? What?”

  “Where were you?” she asked. “I was talking to you. You didn’t hear a word I said to you, did you?”

  I screwed my eyes shut and shook my head. “No, Jacque, I didn’t. I’m sorry. What did you say?”

  “I said that it’s time we got out of here. It’s fifteen to nine.”

  Chapter 9

  Wednesday, January 11, 9:00 a.m.

  Ron Fowler lived in Hixson, in north Chattanooga, in a neat little tri-level on Cloverdale Loop. It was a drive of about eight miles from the office but, because of my reverie, the heavy rain, and the early morning traffic, we arrived some ten minutes late. Not that it mattered to Fowler; he was obviously pleased to have any visitors at all.

  He must have been waiting for us, because before I could ring the bell, the front door opened and there he was, a big grin on his face and his hand stuck out for me to shake, which I did.

  He was in his early sixties, fit and trim, dressed in jeans and a blue plaid flannel shirt. His face was drawn, the high cheekbones prominent, the mouth wide, the lips full. His white hair was in dire need of a trim, but it was neatly combed back over his forehead and hung almost to his collar. His eyes were brown and full of life.

  I thought this guy was supposed to be in bad health.

  Without waiting for me to make the introductions, he ushered us up the stairs into the living room, which was sparsely furnished but with all the necessities of life in retirement: a sixty-inch flat-screen TV, a couch, a recliner, and a coffee table. He had Jacque and I sit together on the couch, and then he went to the adjoining kitchen and returned with a tray with mugs and a full pot of steaming coffee.

  He poured the coffee, offered milk and sugar, then picked up his mug, sat down in the recliner, leaned back and smiled knowingly, first at Jacque and then at me. And he waited.

  “Mr. Fowler,” I began, “I’m….”

  “I know who you are, Harry,” he interrupted me. “You’re the one who put that prick Israel Hands away.” He looked at Jacque. “But you. Who are you?”

  “I’m Jacque Hale, Mr. Starke’s personal assistant.”

  “Nah. You’re not,” he said, rising from his chair and offering her his hand. “Not packing a piece like that.” Her jacket was unzipped, and he nodded at the exposed holster on her hip.

  She shook his hand and smiled, “I am his PA. This is my first time out in the field, Mr. Fowler.”

  He nodded, his lips clamped together in a downturned smile. “Lucky man, Harry. I know you know who I am, so please, call me Ron.”

  “You’re very young to be retired,” she said.

  He seemed pleased by the compliment, nodded, and said, “I did my thirty years. Retired two years ago. Couldn’t handle it any longer than that. Couldn’t pass the lieutenant’s exam, and… well, he’ll tell you.” He nodded at me. “The blood and guts of the homicide division is more than some men can handle; I’m one of them. Now I do a little security, read a lot, and watch TV. It’s not a bad life. So, there you are. Now, Harry, what can I do for you? No! Don’t tell me. Let me tell you. You’re here about Peter Nicholson, right?”

  “How did you know that?”

  He shook his head, smiling. “I knew it. She’ll never give up. His mother. She’s become quite a friend…. Oh, she didn’t tell you? Funny that, because it was me that suggested she hire you.” He sipped on the huge mug of black coffee and stared at me over the rim; wisps of steam curled up in front of his eyes.

  The hell you did.

  “She’s right, you know, his mother,” he said. “It wasn’t an accident, but she never was going to be able to get anyone’s attention. It’s going to take someone like you. The players are too highly placed. It was covered up from the minute Hands arrived on the scene. He knew. Wade knew, and I knew. Wade died praying for forgiveness. I hope he gets it. Me? I was just Wade’s partner. That whole department under Israel Hands was… I want to say corrupt, but that’s not true. Most of the department was honest, but Hands ran it like… like his own private army. You did good work putting him away.” He looked gloomily down into his mug, obviously lost in thought, and I could sympathize. The sheriff back then had been an asshole and a crook to boot.

  “You want to tell me about it?” I asked.

  He looked up, startled, then said, “There’s not much to tell. Nicholson, Myers, Warren, and Harrison drew a good spot on the spring turkey hunt. They arrived early that morning and took their designated spots; they were spread out across several hundred yards of forest. They met for lunch around noon, and then split up again. From time to time they heard shots, each assuming it was one of the others, or maybe even neighboring hunters. They called it a day just before four o’clock that afternoon. Myers, Warren, and Harrison were heading back to the cars when they found him. From the way he was lying on the trail, so they said, they assumed he’d had an accident, tripped and fell on his gun. Anyway, one of them called it in, Harrison, I think it was. Wade and me were first on the scene. We happened to be on Highway 27 a couple miles from the ranger station. We arrived at 4:35 along with two TWRA rangers.”

  “Was one of them John Evans?” I asked, more out of curiosity than a need to know.

  “No. He arrived later, after they’d taken the body away. These two were… damned if I can remember their names. One was a lieutenant, the other…. Ah. Well, anyway, we made sure he was dead, then taped off the scene, took photos and video, and then waited for old man Bowden, the medical examiner. It was almost five o’clock when he arrived. Hands arrived a couple of minutes before him.” He paused, thought for a moment, sipped on his coffee.

  “Harry,” he said, “it was the weirdest thing. Bowden, he spent less than ten minutes there, on site, and that included having the body taken to his vehicle. He walked up to the body, touched the neck to feel for a pulse, nodded, said the guy was dead, grabbed an arm and lifted the body so he could see the gun, then dropped it down again, walked once around it, pulled out his notebook, scribbled a couple of lines, then said, ‘Accident. He tripped over his bootlace and fell on the gun. You can move the body to my car. Do it now, please.’ Wade started to say something, but Hands interrupted him. He said something to the effect that the ME said it was an accident and to do as he asked and clean up while they removed the body. So we did. Harry, they couldn’t get him out of there quick enough.”

  “Where were the other three while all this was going on?” I asked.

  “Warren and company? They were at the trailhead, waiting by their cars.”

  “Did you talk to them?”

  “I didn’t. Well, I was there, but Wade did the interviews. They were short and sweet. Those guys had it together, and they had their stories down pat, almost like they’d rehearsed them. They reeled them off and when Wade tried to question them, they either repeated what they’d already said, or they just clammed up. Finally, Wade just gave up and let ’em go.”

  “So give me your thoughts, Ron.” I said. “What do you think really happened that day?”

  “You’ve seen the photos, right?”

  I nodded. “We have them with us.” Jacque handed me the file. I removed several of the photos and laid them on the coffee table. He leaned forward, adjusted them with his forefinger, stared at them.

  “See, to me and Wade, the whole thing looked staged. Wade said so at the time to Sheriff Hands, but he said, and I’m paraphrasing, ‘Bullshit. The ME said it was an accident, and it was. Don’t try to make more of it than there is. Get rid of the goddamn perimeter tape and get down to the office and do the interviews, and then close the book on it.’ And that’s basically what we did.”

  “You said it looked staged,” Jacque said. “In what way?”

  “Look at the photos. How the hell did the gun end up where it is? Think about it. You trip and fall and the gun hits the dirt and flies out of your hand, right? But look at it. It’s tucked nicely under him, the muzzle right at the wound. I didn’t
believe it then, and I don’t believe it now. Look at this one.” It was a close up of the right boot. “The lace is undone, spread out. That’s what the they said he tripped on. He could have, but look at the boot itself.”

  “I don’t need to,” I said. “It’s still tight. If he’d been walking with the lace undone it would have been loose.”

  “But there’s more,” he said.

  “There is,” I said. “Jacque, look at this one. Do you see anything out of the ordinary?”

  She shook her head. “No, I… don’t see anything. What is it?”

  I looked at Fowler. “You want to tell her or shall I?”

  He grinned. “Why don’t you tell her?”

  “Are you testing me, Ron?” I smiled at him, and he laughed.

  “Maybe.”

  “The cuffs of his pants have been pulled up almost to his mid-calf. That happens when you sit or kneel down….”

  “So,” she interrupted excitedly, “he was either sitting or kneeling, which means he didn’t fall… and that means someone else shot him. He was; he was murdered. Maybe not. Maybe he did it himself…. No! Not dat.” There was that Jamaican accent again. “He could not have shot his own self and then arranged…. But who could have done it?

  “That, my dear, is what we’re trying to figure out. Ron? Any ideas?”

  He slowly shook his head. “Not really, but my best guess would be Warren. He married Nicholson’s widow…. And then there’s the money.”

  “Money?” I asked. “What money?”

  “Well, he was insured: two policies. One for half a million, the other for 750K. She was the sole beneficiary.”

  I hadn’t known that but, thinking about it, it made no difference, except maybe to Warren when he married her; the others? Maybe they benefited some other way from his death, but not from the policies. Ron was right; for now, Judge Ellis Warren was the prime suspect.

  “How about forensics?” I asked.

  “We took the gun and his clothes, and what was in his pockets and so forth. There was nothing else. There was no forensic examination of anything. It was an accident, right?” he said was a certain amount of sarcasm. “We combed the site, but….”

  “What about the other three? Did you get their clothing, guns…?”

  “No. Wade wanted to, but they kicked up a fuss and Hands said there was no need since it had been ruled an accident.

  “And the interviews were a goddamn joke. Warren kicked up a fuss, but he allowed us to take them only for the record. Might as well have handed them multiple choice questionnaires for all the good they were.”

  He leaned forward, his mug cradled in both hands, his elbows resting on his knees. He stared, unseeing, at a framed photograph on the coffee table, then he looked up at me and shook his head.

  “I’d tell you good luck,” he said, “but you’re gonna need more than that. It’s been cold, what, fifteen years? And you ain’t gonna get near those three, let alone get ’em to talk to you, I don’t care who you are. Call me, or come back if you need to, but….” He placed his mug on the table, leaned back in his chair, and shrugged.

  We talked for a few more minutes. I asked several more questions that I really didn’t get any good answers to; hell, I knew there was nothing more he could tell us. I asked only because I wanted to make sure I’d covered all the bases, and then we left.

  He stood at the open front door and watched as we ran through the rain to the car. I had the feeling he didn’t want us to leave, poor guy. He was still watching as we drove away.

  Chapter 10

  Wednesday, January 11, 11:00 a.m.

  Meadowlands Nursing Home was one of those decaying, rundown facilities you find in every town: a one-story, one-time hospital that should have been torn down and replaced years ago. The place seemed to be well run: quiet, clean, and tidy, but it was an old building that no amount of paint and new linoleum could drag into the twenty-first century.

  The nurse at the reception desk looked as tired and overworked as the building, but she greeted us brightly enough.

  “I’d like to see Dr. Carl Bowden, please. I have one or two questions about an old case of his….”

  She shook her head. “You can see him, but it won’t do you any good. He’s in the advanced stages of Alzheimer’s. He doesn’t remember much about anything.” She paused. “You still want to try?”

  “I do. Please.”

  “Okay. Follow me.”

  She led us along a corridor and into a large open space, the south side of which was a single picture window with a couple of small tables and several mismatched chairs set close to them. There was also a wheelchair set facing the window; its occupant was staring out of it, seemingly into space.

  She led us across the room and placed a hand gently on the old man’s shoulder.

  “Carl?”

  He didn’t move.

  She leaned and whispered in his ear, “Carl?”

  He started, looked up at her, and smiled. “It’s beautiful,” he said.

  “What is, Carl?”

  He nodded as he looked out of the window. “The lake. The birds. Beautiful.” It was.

  She looked at me, her eyes wide, astonished. “He’s lucid; first time in a week. You have five minutes. Make the most of it.” And she left to take a seat at one of the tables a few feet away.

  “Dr. Bowden?” I said. “I’d like to talk to you. Will that be okay?”

  He looked up at me and smiled. Then he looked at Jacque and his eyes lit up.

  “Sit down, sit down. What did you say your names were?”

  We pulled up two chairs and sat down beside him.

  “My name’s Harry Starke, Dr. Bowden, and this is my friend, Jacque.”

  He nodded, looked out of the window. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” He paused, then: “What do you want?”

  There was no point in trying to make conversation. I jumped right in. “Do you remember the Peter Nicholson case, Dr. Bowden?”

  He shut his eyes, screwed up his mouth, seemed to concentrate, then opened his eyes and smiled.

  “The Nicholson boy. Yes. He fell on his gun. Shot himself. I remember. Caused quite a stir at the time…. Shot himself…. Tripped…. Fell on his gun. Silly man…. Beautiful. Ducks. Sometimes there are hawks.”

  “Dr. Bowden. You said it was an accident. Why?”

  “Accident? What accident? What…. Oh, the Nicholson thing…. Because it was; you could see that it was. I was there, you know. I saw him. He was lying on the gun. Besides… besides… one of them… ah, ah, I don’t remember which one: one of them said he tripped on his bootlace and fell…. Look, look at that one, the pretty colored one. It’s an orgasm duck, you know.”

  “What?” I looked at Jacque.

  “Merganza. He means a merganza duck,” she whispered.

  “Oh,” I smiled. “Yes, that’s right, Dr. Bowden, but who said it was an accident? It’s not in any of the reports.”

  “Accident? What accident?”

  Oh shit. How am I going to do this?

  “The Nicholson case, Dr. You said he fell and shot himself.”

  “Oh… that. I… I… I don’t remember. It was so long ago. He… he said he tripped, fell on the gun. It went off; an accident. You… you could see it, the way he was lying there, on the gun…. It was all so long ago….” He paused, stared out of the window.

  Jeez.

  “Dr. Bowden!”

  He came back with a start. “What…. Oh, it’s you. What do you want?”

  I looked at Jacque. She shook her head.

  “Dr. Bowden,” I said, quietly. “The man who told you it was an accident. I need to know who that was. Please. Concentrate. Who told you it was an accident?”

  “Accident? What accident? What are you talking about? I haven’t had an accident.” He leaned forward in the wheelchair, put his hands on the arms as if he were about to try to stand, looked around the room, and whispered, “Where’s Lily? Where is she?”

&nbs
p; “Lily?” I asked. “Who’s Lily?”

  The nurse must have heard him, because she came quickly to his side. “Lily will be here soon, Carl. I’ll bring her to you when she arrives.” He smiled up at her and nodded, then turned again to look out of the window.

  She turned to me. I stood up and she took me by the elbow, and tried to steer me toward the door. “I think it’s time you left. He can’t help you.”

  “But I have to know,” I said.

  She shook her head. “But he doesn’t know. He doesn’t even know Lily, his wife, has been dead for more than five years. He doesn’t know who I am either, most days. Please, leave him in peace.” And I did.

  Outside in the parking lot, I stood for a moment, hands in my jacket pockets, and stared up at the remnants of the storm that was now, for the most part, giving the population of the mountains of Western North Carolina the benefit of its still mounting rage.

  Wow. The man’s a…. No, he’s not. He’s sick—dying, God bless him. Now what?

  “You want some lunch?” I asked Jacque quietly, without taking my eyes off the low-lying clouds. “I need to go to the club and talk to my father. You can come with me or I can drop you back at the office.”

  She nodded. “The office, if you don’t mind. There are a couple of things I need to handle. Shouldn’t take more than an hour. Then I’m all yours. That okay?”

  It was, and we climbed into the car and headed back. I wasn’t feeling so good. Depressed by what I’d seen of a once-vibrant human being in the final throes of a terrible and debilitating disease. In fact, I wasn’t in the mood for the club either, or my father, so the office was just fine for me too.

  Chapter 11

  Wednesday, January 11, 1:00 p.m.

  The office was deserted; everyone else had gone to lunch. Jacque went quickly about whatever it was she needed to do, and I made coffee and went to my inner sanctum to sit in front of the fire, perchance to dream.

  Nah. That’s not it. I’m missing the tropical sunshine, sand, sea, and rum punches… Amanda… and the Lady May. I wonder if he’d like to sell her…. Forget it, Harry. She’d just sit there at the dock, waiting, and you’d never get there. It’s a nice thought, but… maybe one day. For now, there are things you need to do.