I arrived back at my new offices a few minutes after eleven. I needed a coffee fix in the worst way and some time alone to think. The coffee was easy; the quiet time was not. I soon found out what it is to be in charge of a company. No sooner did I walk in the door than I was bombarded with questions, most of which I couldn’t answer.
Fifteen minutes after I arrived, I was already missing Jacque. I needed a front man… Okay, okay, a woman… whatever. I needed Jacque to protect me from the minutia that came with running a business. Damn. How long did she say it would be before she graduates? Next May? Wow!
Anyway, I dodged most of the bullets and finally was able to go to my own office and shut the door, leaving instructions with the new girl—hell, we’re all new—Suzy Kennedy, that I wasn’t to be disturbed unless she received a message that my wife had died.
“But… you’re not married. You don’t have a wife.”
“Exactly,” I said, gifting her with a grin. “Keep ’em all away from me, Suzy, until I tell you differently, okay? And that goes for Ronnie and Tim too. Got it?” She had, so I made myself some more coffee and shut myself off from the world.
My office was still kind of bare. Ronnie had rustled up an old steel desk and a swivel chair I could use until we had something better, and Kate had found a couple of leather Chesterfield chairs in an antique shop. She’d ordered a proper desk—whatever that means—from a local cabinet maker, and that was it, except for a shiny new iMac computer on the desk.
I sat down, tapped the space bar and was immediately rewarded with the Google Chrome start page. I shook my head, clicked the sleep button, and turned the machine off.
I opened the desk drawer and found some yellow legal pads and a selection of colored pens, courtesy of Jacque, I was sure. Whatever, I set one of the pads on the desk and a red pen precisely aligned alongside it, and then I sat and stared at the pair. Now what?
I sat back in the chair and stared up at the light fixture, two bare bulbs in a black sconce. That’s gotta go. Hmm, I wonder how Tim’s doing with his equipment?
I almost did it; I almost got up and went to check on him, but I stopped myself. You’re here to think, dumbass. Now stop friggin’ around and think… damn it.
And that’s what I did. I picked up the red pen and began to write. I made a short list of names:
Frank Marsh
Marsh’s Investors
Phoebe Marsh
JoJo James
Small Mouth
Penelope Ross
Benny Brown
Stitch Tree
That last made me sad and smile, both at the same time.
Then I had one of those weird feelings, and I added Shady Tree to the list. Why? Benny Hinkle said that Brown had worked for Shady, so... So? Aw hell, I don’t know! It’ll come to me. It always does.
The more I looked at the list, the more helpless I felt. When I was a cop, I had access to a whole world of law enforcement aids and resources: forensics, criminal databases, experts—even the medical examiner—on anything and everything. A few taps on the keyboard and it all lay at my feet. Not anymore. All of that was gone. All I was left with was my experience and brain to rely upon. The experience… yeah. The brain… hah!
It was at that moment I remembered the old saying that no man is an island, and I realized that I needed help.
I got up from my desk and shoved my head out of the door.
“Hey, Suzy. Ask Ronnie and Tim to join me in my office, would you please? And”—I grinned to myself—“hold my calls.” I always wanted to say that. Now I can, whenever I want.
“Grab a seat, both of you,” I said when they arrived.
“Tim,” I said, as I checked my watch. It was just after twelve-thirty; the morning had gotten away from me. “Did your equipment arrive okay?”
He nodded. “Yessir. You want to go see—”
“No,” I interrupted him. “Not right now. Maybe later.”
They sat down, and Tim set his briefcase on the floor beside him and opened his laptop on his lap.
“Look, I’m kind of stuck in a swamp here,” I said. “I have no resources. When I was a cop, I could snap my fingers and get whatever I needed when I needed it. Right now, I need some answers. I need some help, and you two are it, I hope.
“What do you need, Harry?” Ronnie asked.
“JoJo James. I need to know who he’s working for. Tim, have you had time to—”
“I did, I have. I ran his name through NCIC and—”
“You did what?” I interrupted him. I was stunned.
“I… ran his name through the National Criminal Information Center.” He colored up. “Is that bad?” he asked, nervously, poking the bridge of his glasses with his finger.
“Yeah, it’s bad,” I said, glancing at Ronnie.
He was grinning like a fool.
“No,” I said, “well yes, but… How the hell did you do that?”
Tim gifted me with a sly smile and said, “Same way I did the IRS.”
“You hacked the NCIC database? You can’t do that.”
“Obviously, he can,” Ronnie said, smiling.
I shook my head, thinking about the implications— and the consequences—of what I was hearing.
“Um, Mr. Starke,” Tim said quietly, hesitantly, “I’m kinda confused. I’m a hacker. It’s what I do. You know that. Isn’t that why you hired me? Jacque, Suzy, Ronnie, any one of them can do data entry and Google searches, but I… I do what I do.” He shut up and stared at me.
It hit me like a slap in the face. I may not have been aware of it at the time, but deep in my subconscious mind, it was exactly why I’d hired the kid.
I shook my head, then said, “You’re right… You’re right, Tim. That is why I hired you. I just didn’t… Never mind. Just don’t get caught, okay? If you do… Ah hell. Tell me what you found out about James.”
“He has a record, of course, a long one, most of it petty stuff, but he was arrested for the murder of a drug dealer back in 1997 and again for the murder of a twenty-two-year-old prostitute in 2001. The charges, both of them, were dropped for lack of evidence, that and because he had alibi’s both times. As far as I can tell, he doesn’t work for anybody per se. He freelances. I still need to do a little more digging, though. Is that okay?”
I nodded. “Yes, well done, Tim. Just be careful. I don’t want us to get shut down before we even get started.” I paused, then said, “How about Small Mouth? I need to know who he is and who he’s working for… Tim, did you have any luck with that tape I gave you?”
“Is this Small Mouth?” He turned the screen toward me. On it was what was obviously the first page of an FBI file with a mug shot at the top left.
“How the hell did you find him?”
Tim grinned.
“I converted the images from the tape you gave me to digital—they weren’t very good—and then I…” He paused, made a face, then continued, tentatively, “I ran it through the FBI’s Computer Aided Facial Recognition Project, CAFRP… and there you are. His name is…”
I didn’t hear the name. My head was spinning. Holy Mary Mother of God, I thought. What the hell have I gotten myself into?
I stared at him without seeing him. Inwardly, I was shaking my head in horror. I’d heard about CAFRP, but I didn’t know it was in use. It was controversial even back then. I certainly didn’t have access to such resources when I was a cop. Now, it seemed I did. And will it be a blessing or a curse? I wondered.
“I’m sorry, Tim,” I said, very quietly. “What did you say his name is?”
“Amos Watts.”
“And what do we know about him?” I asked, my curiosity gaining the advantage over my concern.
“Not much. He doesn’t have much of a record, but he was a suspect in a bank robbery back in 2005, hence his likeness in the FBI database, but he was never charged. The FBI does have a file on him though, and it seems they’re keeping it up-to-date… Well, until the last entry three months ago, they were. He’s suspected of being a mule for the Chupacabra Cartel, which is probably why they’re keeping an eye on him. That’s all they have… officially.”
“How about unofficially?” Ronnie asked.
“Again, not much. I found a second file, a stray that someone had uploaded into the FBI system. It was written by a Border Patrol agent named Jose Ramos. It seems he, Watts, is also a coyote, involved in human trafficking across the Rio Grande, but again, there’s nothing specific.”
He paused, looked guilty, did that thing with his glasses, then stared defiantly at me and said, “Okay! Look, Mr. Starke, I know that he’s running with… that he’s involved with James.”
“And how do you know that?” I asked, dreading the answer.
“Joseph James has an iPhone,” he said, setting his laptop on the edge of my desk and reaching for his briefcase. “I hacked the phone company—actually, I hacked four of them before I found the right one—and got his phone records. There are several numbers he calls a lot, all the time, in fact. I pulled those records too. One of them belongs to Amos Watts.”
“Phone records?” I asked, praying that I would still go to heaven.
“Yeah, I have a bunch. Will they help?” He handed me a sheet of paper.
“Oh yeah, they’ll help.” I looked down the list. Tim was right. There were several dozen numbers he’d called often; three of them a whole lot more than often. I looked up at him.
“These three,” I said. “Can we find out who they belong to?” I asked, by that time knowing full well that he could.
He grinned at me. “I thought you might ask that. Here you go.” He handed me another single sheet of paper with a list of a half-dozen numbers with names thereon, and one number without a name, seven numbers in all. Then he handed me the matching phone records, and there was a pile of them.
I looked at the records. JoJo James had called one of the numbers—or had been called from the number—thirty-seven times over the past six weeks. Amos Watts had talked to the same number twenty-nine times, and to James almost as many. The other number, the one without a name, had forty-two calls listed to it.
Now that is interesting! I thought. But one of the names was even more interesting.
I wrote the name on a piece of paper and handed it to Tim. “I want to know everything there is to know about this guy.”
Tim grinned at me, and said, “I thought you might say that. Here you go, boss.” And he handed me several more printed sheets of paper stapled together at the corner.
I glanced at them and smiled to myself, then set them aside for later.
“You really do have a knack for this, kid, don’t you?” I said. “Is there any way to trace the nameless number?”
Tim sat there with a smile on his blushing face. “I’m working on it. It’s a burner, but I already know it was purchased for cash at Walmart on Shallowford Road on September 10 this year at three-oh-nine in the afternoon. I need to hack into the security system. If they have a camera—knowing the time of purchase—I should be able to grab a copy of the video. If there’s a good image of the buyer—”
“Okay, okay, Tim,” I interrupted him. “I get it, and it’s a whole lot more information than I need right now. Just do what you have to do and for Pete’s sake, don’t get caught.”
Damn! I thought savagely. Oh for the days when I could go get a warrant and just demand the security footage. Now I have to resort to— this?
There was a knock at the door, it opened just enough for Suzy to stick her head inside.
“I know you said you were not to be disturbed, but there’s a cop here, says her name is Sergeant Gazzara, that you know her. She looks upset. What do you want me to do?”
“Let her in.” Before the words had come out of my mouth, Kate was through the door.
“What the hell’s wrong with you, Harry? Hello, Ronnie, Tim.”
Tim shot up out of his chair as if it was on fire, grabbed his laptop from my desk, and snapped it closed. He did not sit back down.
“Nice to see you too, Kate,” I said. “What’s up?”
“I just got a call from Henry Finkle. He received a call from Commissioner Lawton Eider and now he’s on my ass. Eider’s made a complaint about an incident, about your behavior, at the courthouse.”
I frowned, confused. “Incident? What incident?”
“He said you pushed your way to the front of the line and insisted on being helped before anyone else. He said you said something like, “I’m a cop. I don’t wait in line.”
Why wasn’t I surprised? I looked again at the papers that Tim had prepared for me. I had an idea the answers I needed were already in my hands.
“He was lying,” I said quietly. “He insisted on taking me to the front of the line. Said it was little enough to do for me after all I’d done for the city.”
Kate put her hands on her hips. “Why would he lie?”
“You’re asking me why a dirty politician would lie?” I said.
She pursed her lips, frowned, turned her back to me, and walked toward the fireplace.
Tim, still standing, piped up. “Um… hello again, Miss Gazzara. You look very nice today.”
Kate was completely taken off-guard, as was I, but I couldn’t help smiling. Geez, I love this kid.
Tim was right, though. She’d gone home after she’d left me and changed clothes. She was wearing jeans and a white roll-neck sweater under her signature tan leather jacket.
She turned, looked at him, her eyes narrowed. She took a deep breath and sighed. “Thank you, Tim.” Then she looked at me and said, “Why would he do that, Harry? Lie about something so… petty. It’s stupid.”
I smiled at her; I knew something she didn’t.
“Not so stupid as you might think,” Ronnie said, looking at Tim. “Show him the list, Tim.”
Tim handed me two sheets of paper stapled together and said, “This is a list of the major investors, or should I say, victims, in Frank Marsh’s Ponzi scheme.”
I took it from him and glanced down the list… actually, I didn’t. The name I was looking for was only three down from the top of the list. I stared at it, almost unable to comprehend what I was seeing.
“Three-point-four million dollars,” I said, without looking up. “I’d say that’s just about wiped him out.”
“What?” Kate asked. “Who are you talking about?”
“Lawton Eider,” I said.
“Tim,” I said. “I need to know who owns that burner phone and I need to know now. Can you—”
“I’m on it,” he said, already heading for the door with his briefcase and laptop in hand. “It might take a while.” He rushed out into the corridor, leaving the door wide open.
“Sit down, Kate,” I said, nodding at the chair Tim had vacated. “I think I know who’s behind all of this.”
“Well,” she said, tapping her foot. “Are you going to tell me or not? I’m assuming from what you just said about Eider that it’s him, right?”
“I think so,” I said. “I think it’s all down to Eider. He’s lost a ton of money, and he wants it back. But I’m still trying to figure it out. I need to know who owns the burner phone he’s been calling. In the meantime, I also think he has Phoebe Marsh… if she’s still alive. Can you…”
“You want me to come with you?” she asked, her eyes wide.
I nodded.
“Oh, I don’t know, Harry.”
“What’s wrong?” I asked. “Is it your case?”
“No, not that. I’m still playing the waiting game—you know how the labs are. Bloodwork is easy, DNA not so much.” She rolled her eyes. “I left Tracy to do the grunt work. He should be able to hold things together for a while. No, Harry, Eider is a county commissioner and we only have… What you have is all circumstantial.”
“I know all that,” I said. “But if I’m right, he does have Phoebe Marsh, or at least he knows where she is. He’s using her to pressure Marsh. He wants his money.”
“How do you know all this?” she asked.
“The phone records,” I said. “James has been talking to Eider for almost two months, so has Watts… and Eider has talked to whoever has that burner more than forty times. These guys are badasses, Kate. What would a guy like Eider be doing with the likes of them? No good, that’s for sure. James is freelance muscle, a killer. Watts too, probably.”
“It’s one hell of a stretch, Harry. Just because he’s been talking to some rough characters doesn’t mean—”
“Rough characters?” I interrupted her. “I just told you, James is a frickin’ killer. We know that because he killed Stitch—probably to stop him from talking to me. I saw him do it, and he knew I would come after him for it. I also think he killed Penelope Ross for the same reason, to stop her from talking to me. Then either he or Watts murdered Benny Brown and tried to frame me for it in a weak attempt to put me away, to stop me. I think Eider hired the two of them to kidnap Phoebe and use her to pressure Marsh into revealing where he stashed the money, almost one hundred million.”
I paused, looked at her for a minute, then said, “Look, I can’t do this on my own. I don’t have the authority; you do.”
She just stared at me, said nothing.
Come on, Kate, I thought. What the hell are you thinking about?
I tried one more thing. “And then there’s this,” I said, handing her a sheet of paper. “I asked Tim to find out who owns the Rose Café, now Lucky’s Diner. Check it out.”
She read for a moment then looked up at me and said, “I don’t believe it.”
But I could tell from the look on her face that she did.
“It’s true,” I said, “and the place is mortgaged up to the rafters. Eider is in so deep he’s drowning. I’m betting that Phoebe Marsh is being held at the café. Now, can you get a warrant to go search the place? Ask Henry Strange. He has a soft spot for you.”
She gave me a look. “And what about the other Henry—Finkle? He’ll lose his onions if I go chasing after a county commissioner. It’s not my case, Harry. It’s assigned to Eric Cable.”
I was exasperated. It was the same old, same old all over again: office politics. I didn’t think Kate played that game, but… it seemed she did.
“You know what, Kate,” I said. “This is exactly why I got out. All the freakin’ red tape, delay after delay, and in the meantime, there’s a kid’s life at stake. You do whatever the hell you want. I’m going to see Eider. Then I’m going to take the Rose freakin’ Café apart, and James and Watts along with it if they get in the way, and maybe even if they don’t. I promised Stitch’s dead body I’d get James, and by God, I will.”
“Okay, okay,” she said, holding up her hands. “I’ll call Judge Strange.”
And she did, and fifteen minutes later we were on our way to the Federal Building to pick up the warrant.