“It wasn’t Bobby Solomon? Was it?” I said.
Her head snapped forward, mouth open, staring straight at me. I thought I could see her lip quiver. For a moment, she forgot our little game. She was absorbing the name. The weight of it. The spotlight that surrounded it.
Finally, she closed her mouth, shook her head and said, “No, no, that wasn’t it. Karen Harvey. That’s the one. I can’t show you anything from those files.”
I finished copying the marks on the great seal onto my own dollar. Folded it, put it away. I then packed up the laptop. Harper and I got up, shook hands with Delaney. Harper first. It was a curt exchange. A formal handshake, brief and professional.
She led us out of the conference room and back down the corridor to reception, then Delaney turned and left. As we waited for the elevator, I studied the dollar I’d marked.
“What the hell is this about?” Harper said.
“I have no idea. If she’s right, there’s one sick individual out there. And they’re playing some kind of game. We need to work on this. We have to find a way to call Delaney as a witness in Bobby’s case,” I said.
Harper shifted her weight, put a hand on one hip and fixed me with a confused look.
“You heard her. You even said it yourself – we can’t force her to testify. It’s an open case.”
The elevator doors opened, we got in and Harper hit the button for the ground floor.
“There’s one way we can force her to testify,” I said.
“Blow me. There’s not a chance. Go on, surprise me. I bet you a buck it won’t work. Delaney will never testify about her case.”
“Only reason she can’t testify is because it’s an open case. All we have to do is close it.”
The car journey to Carp Law didn’t take long, and no one spoke. Holten drove. Harper and I sat in the back seat, each of us poring over news articles on our phones.
Annie Hightower was found dead in November 2001 in the living room of her Springfield home. Her throat had been cut to the bone. Her kids were supposed to have had a weekend visit with their father, Omar Hightower. Instead, the kids were really with Omar’s sister two blocks away from their mother’s house. Omar told the court he’d recently come into money. He had a big football bet pay off. Close to a hundred grand. Even made the local paper. He’d spent some of it on drugs – smoked a bowl or twelve that afternoon, and his sister found the kids in Omar’s kitchen playing with the microwave. The sister, Cheyenne, took the kids for the night to let Omar sleep it off. So Omar had no alibi for the night of the murder. He owed Annie close to a thousand dollars in child support and she had instructed a lawyer to get it back. The dollar bill found in between Annie’s toes had Omar’s fingerprints on it. I thought about the eagle on the great seal. The arrows and olive branches clutched in its talons. At the trial, Omar’s defense attorney argued that his client had given Annie cash earlier in the week – and the killer had used one of those notes to frame Omar.
The jury didn’t buy it.
A single paragraph article in 2008 confirmed Omar had been murdered in prison.
The case of Derek Cass seemed equally straightforward. Derek had been a family man. Wife. Three kids. Sold Transit vans out of his own lot in the heart of Wilmington. He would need to travel, on occasion, to meet clients and suppliers. Out on the road, Derek became Deelyla. In the summer of 2010 he got in trouble, as Deelyla, in a bar two miles outside of Newark. A part-time garage attendant named Pete Timson didn’t take too kindly to finding out his hot date was really a man, and threatened to strangle Deelyla. He followed Deelyla back to her motel. Strangled her in the bed, and left a bill with his prints on it on the bedside table. Witnesses testified to the threat. Case closed.
“Karen Harvey doesn’t quite fit,” said Harper.
“I haven’t gotten to her yet. How come?” I said.
Flicking her thumb across the screen to the beginning of the article, Harper said, “She’s not the same as the others. Restaurant owner in Manchester, New Hampshire. Late fifties, divorced, successful. Died in what looks like a robbery in 1999. Shot in the stomach, then a double tap to the head, up close. The cash register had been damaged, but not opened. Only thing missing was half a dollar bill. When she was found she still held one half of the bill. The other half was found in the apartment of Roddy Rhodes. Bassist in a local band. Drug addict with a string of convictions for armed robbery. Local cops, acting on an anonymous tip, raided his apartment, found the torn bill and the murder weapon – a .45 Magnum. His fingerprints weren’t on the bill, but Rhodes bought the rap anyway.”
“He pleaded?”
“Murder two. He gets out in twenty-five years.”
I thought about Bobby’s fingerprint on the butterfly bill found in Carl’s mouth.
Holten pulled up outside Carp Law. Harper and I got out and went inside. Holten would wait in the lobby. Rudy had left a message on my cell while we were still with the feds. He said jury selection was complete and the trial started tomorrow. The office was abuzz. Secretaries, lawyers, paralegals – everyone looked jazzed and busy.
In the conference room we found Rudy, Bobby and a man, sitting with his back to me, that I’d hoped never to see again. I’d last encountered him a few years ago when he caused me one or two problems with the FBI. I recognized him even from behind. I’d know that ugly, bald head anywhere. Arnold Novoselic. Jury consultancy was a dirty game. And Arnold was the dirtiest. I’d been involved in one of Arnold’s games before.
“Hi, Arnold,” I said.
He got up, turned around, and his jaw dropped when he saw me. He hadn’t changed. Still fifty pounds heavier than was healthy for him. Still wearing drab suits. Still getting paid a fortune for cheating the justice game.
“You still lip-reading jurors?” I asked.
He didn’t answer me. Instead he turned his anger on Rudy.
“I refuse to work with this man. He’s a … a …”
“Crook? That’s rich coming from you,” I said.
“Stop it. Right now. Arnold, sit down. Please. Eddie, Arnold is our jury consultant for this trial. He is tried and tested and gets results. How he gets those results is not really my concern. Nor is it yours. Let Arnold do his job. You do your job, and we’ll all get on like a house on fire. There’s no room for arguments. Trial starts tomorrow,” said Rudy.
Harry must’ve bumped the schedule. Good. I was looking forward to getting started. I shifted my focus from Arnold and I introduced Harper.
Rudy patted Bobby on the shoulder and offered him a bottle of water from a stack of them in the center of the table. He took it, cracked the bottle and drained it. He’d had just a taste of the courtroom today. Even though I hadn’t been there, I could tell this trial was becoming real for him. He looked nervous, shaken. Hunched over the desk, he clutched the empty bottle tight and twisted it.
I tore a single page off a notepad, made a short list of items I’d need.
“You clearer on the case now?” said Rudy.
Harper and I exchanged glances. I decided to go first.
“Harper will lay out what we’ve discovered. But yeah, things are a little clearer. There’s still a lot of work to do. If it pays off we might win this. First, I need one of your paralegals to go do some shopping,” I said, handing the list to Rudy.
He took it and I watched his eyebrows get closer together the more he read.
“There’s a lot of weird stuff on here. A twelve-foot-wide plastic sheet? Corn syrup? What on earth is this, Eddie?” said Rudy.
“It’s complicated. Plus, we think there might be a lead on an alternative suspect. Harper got us in to see an FBI analyst today. There is a single link between this case and an ongoing FBI investigation into a possible serial killer. We don’t have enough yet. The link is small, and it’s nowhere near reasonable doubt, but we’re working on it. In the meantime, I need your help. I need you to subpoena a man named Gary Cheeseman. I’ll give you his business address later. Put him on our list of witnesses and g
ive it to the DA. And don’t worry, I don’t need to call him. I just need him in the public gallery.”
I saw Harper racking her brains for the name. She came up short and said, “Who the hell is Gary Cheeseman?”
“Gary Cheeseman is the president of a company called Sweetlands Limited operating out of Illinois.”
“And what is his connection with this case?” said Rudy.
“None. That’s what makes it beautiful. Trust me, Gary Cheeseman is going to blow a big hole in the prosecution’s case.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
It was coming up on seven o’clock in the evening. The temperature had dropped and Kane’s breath misted the air in front of his face, but he felt warm. He’d worked up a sweat after spending an hour washing down the Chevy Silverado in an abandoned garage. It hadn’t taken him long to crowbar the lock, throw up the shutter, park the Chevy and then close up. Five minutes. Tops. The stab wound in his thigh felt tight.
A rusted oil drum sat in the corner. The previous owner had used it as a burn barrel. An aluminum vent sat above it. He siphoned some gas from the Chevy, poured it into the barrel, struck a match and let it fall.
Standing in front of the burning oil barrel, Kane took off his shirt and dropped it into the flames. He checked the pocket of his pants, drew out a single dollar, then stripped off the pants and put them in the barrel. For a second, he examined the bill before adding it to the flames. He had a fresh set of clothes in a bag in the back seat of the Chevy. Kane couldn’t swear that it was real, but he thought he saw a green hue to the fire. Perhaps there was copper in the bottom of the barrel, or some chemical. It reminded him of Fitzgerald’s Gatsby, staring at the green light across the dark waters. The American dream. Unobtainable, and receding before him with every crack of flame.
Kane knew this dream. His mother talked about it. She strove for it all her life, and failed. Just like he did before he realized the truth. The American dream wasn’t money. It was freedom. True freedom.
He didn’t like the tight feeling in his leg. He checked the dressing, loosened it a little, popped a double-dose of antibiotics and took his temperature with a digital thermometer. Ninety-eight point six. Perfect.
Kane knew a lot about pain for someone who had never experienced it. It had an important physiological function. A warning system. Signals from the brain to tell you that there is a problem. Headaches. Muscle injuries. Infection. If Kane didn’t monitor his body closely, he could destroy it.
He heard his disposable cell vibrating. He picked up.
“Kids found the body you left in Brooklyn. Called it in. Don’t worry, it’ll take a while to identify,” said the voice.
“Do I need to push the schedule forward?” asked Kane.
“They won’t link the body to the jury summons immediately, maybe never. He was a private dick with a liberal agenda – there are plenty of better suspects and motives right now. All the same, the faster you can do this, the better. I see you were busy this afternoon too. Maybe you should calm things down.”
“I’ll bear that advice in mind,” said Kane.
He heard the man sigh on the other end of the line.
“There’s a state-wide APB on the Chevy. You clean the car? Change the plates?”
“Of course. Calm yourself. That car will never be traced. What have you heard about this afternoon’s activities?”
“I know a guy in homicide in that precinct. He’ll fill me in. I’ll keep a watch on the wires. If they catch a lucky break I’ll let you know.”
“Make sure you do. If I learn you’ve been holding out on me … well, you know the consequences,” said Kane.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
I needed a couple of hours’ downtime. Just to let things work themselves out in my head. By the end of the meeting in Carp Law, I could tell everyone needed pretty much the same. They’d all listened. Rudy had heard every story under the sun, but he raised an eyebrow at this one. Eventually, we’d all agreed – we didn’t have enough to point the finger at an unknown serial killer. Not nearly enough. But Rudy liked my other points and he’d sent a couple of paralegals out into Manhattan with the company credit card and my shopping list. Good enough. The only one who’d been silent during the meeting was Bobby. I couldn’t read him. Most of the time, he just stared out the window at Times Square. I thought that maybe he was taking in the view as much as possible. Like a man who knew he wouldn’t have a view like that from a prison cell for the next thirty or forty years.
The meeting broke up with arrangements to meet again in the morning, before court, to go through Rudy’s opening statement to the jury.
I’d also promised Harper I would call her later, after her date with Holten.
At first she didn’t want to acknowledge it was a date. Eventually, she nodded and said, “Yeah, it’s a date. I know it’s not exactly professional to meet people like this, but I figure what the hell? If Rudy Carp doesn’t like it – he can blow me.”
“You gotta stop saying blow me. Holten’s gonna get the wrong idea,” I said.
We laughed together for a few moments. It felt good. Soon as the elevator doors opened it felt like putting on a two-hundred-pound backpack. We were back on business.
“I’m going to call some friendlies in local law enforcement. Joe knows a lot of cops. I get on better with local PD than I do the feds so I’ll hit the phones too. Sheriffs, deputies, detectives. Between them all they cover almost half of the United States. I want to send them details of the dollar bill – see if anything shakes loose,” said Harper.
My cell phone rang. Christine.
“Hi, listen, I’m in the city. I had to come up and see a few old friends. By the time I get home I won’t want to cook dinner. How about some Chinese food?” she said.
“Sure, I didn’t know you were coming to Manhattan.”
“I wasn’t working today, so I decided to go see some people. I don’t need to tell you my movements, Eddie.”
“Sorry, that’s not what I meant. I … look, dinner sounds great. I just thought I might get to see Amy tonight,” I said.
“Well, you’ll have to settle for me. The usual place? In an hour?”
I knew better than to argue. My time with Amy was very much dictated by Christine – and I didn’t have it in me to fight about it. That only made things worse. No, I needed to make a good impression tonight. Finally, I had a way out of the life I’d been living. A steady job with Rudy. No risky cases. No psycho clients. No reason to worry that some lunatic would target my family to get to me. It was what Christine always wanted for us. What I had always wanted for us.
“Sure, see you there,” I said.
I had time to go get my car. I didn’t want to leave it any longer and I’d planned to take it that evening to make the drive to Riverhead for dinner with Amy and Christine.
I hailed a cab and rode north. Through rush hour. All the way to Pier 76. The Manhattan auto lot. I found the teller, showed him my ticket, paid the fine and he gave me my keys, a lot number and a map. When I finally found the Mustang, it still had the McDonald’s bag under the windshield wiper. I tore it off, threw it in the back seat and cursed Detective Granger.
Asshole.
A half-hour later I was in my car and headed for Chinatown. I parked up and jogged two blocks to Doyer Street. The Nom Wah Tea Parlor didn’t look like much from the outside. It didn’t get much better on the inside, either. Red vinyl booths, Formica tables. A diner set-up, but the only difference was that you got chopsticks on a side plate instead of a knife and fork. It was nothing special, apart from the food. And the history. Chinatown had grown up around the place. It had been open since 1920 and they made dumplings and dim sum like nobody else in the city.
I was late, and Christine had already taken a booth and ordered some tea. She didn’t smile when she saw me. Just waved her chopsticks and then turned her attention back to the dumplings and soy sauce. Because I’d ran part of the way, I was a little out of breath. My stomach f
elt tight, and I realized I was nervous. I wanted to tell her about the job at Carp Law, but didn’t know how to do it. My mouth was dry, and I had the same feeling I’d had on our first date – fear. I knew when I first met her that she was special and I couldn’t mess it up. Well, I’d done a pretty good job of messing things up so far. This was the last chance.
She’d cut her hair. The soft, dark brown hair that I’d known for so long was now cut in a bob. She looked different. A little more tanned than usual. I sat down opposite her and the waiter brought me a beer without me asking.
“I hear you’re drinking again,” said Christine.
“Hold up a second, I’m sorry I’m late. And I didn’t order the beer. You did.”
“Harry told me. Says you’ve got it under control. He figures a little drink every now and again, when he can watch you, is better than you pulling your fingernails out thinking that you’ll never have a drink again,” she said, casually, in between bites of pale dumpling.
I held up my hands in surrender.
“Hi, I’m real sorry I’m late. Can we start over?”
Christine took a mouthful of tea, sat back and wiped her lips with a napkin. Stared at me. Waved her hand and said, “I’m just a little cranky today. How are things?”
I told her about the Solomon case. At first she was pissed. Her eyebrows knitted together and her neck flushed. I knew all her little tells.
“I thought you were supposed to be winding down. Staying out of the spotlight. Cases like that bring attention. We all know the kind of attention you get is usually dangerous,” she said.
It was a fair point. The exact reason that we weren’t together. My job brought trouble. And my family was too important to me. If anything happened to them because of me, I don’t know what I would do. There had been close scrapes before. And our daughter had suffered.
“This case isn’t dangerous. And it’s given me an opportunity. I’ll tell you in a second, but look – you haven’t told me how Amy’s doing. I want to hear everything.”
Thirteen_The serial killer isn’t on trial. He’s on the jury Page 13