Twist of Fate – A Jack West Novel (Jack West Mystery Book 1)

by Deanna King

  “What about the Silver Moon, does it say?” Jack tapped his pen against the desk.

  “It’s still owned by SS Corporation but doesn’t list any names or shareholders. SS, you think that’s Sara Sutton, Jack?”

  “That would be my guess. She did leave it to Celeste Mason. If Mason is supposedly dead, then who did she leave it to?”

  “I don’t have an answer for that.” Lucky scratched at his chin, and then glanced at his watch. “Hey, let’s vamoose, Cheech will be standing there with his thumb in his ear wondering where we are.”

  . . .

  “Howzit going, Cheech?” Lucky asked as he stepped out of the car and stuck his hand out.

  “Business is booming, we’re printing and processing more crime scenes than we can handle, guess the ‘bad guys’ are our job security. Hey, Jack in the Beanstalk, how are you?” Cheech stuck his hand out.

  “Cheech, were you able to dig up any old records?”

  “Man, Jack, you get right to it, huh?” Cheech grinned.

  “Hell, Cheech, this case is already over twenty-five years old, I don’t want to add another year.” Jack smiled at him, then inclined his head toward the back of the impound lot. “You ready to rock-n- roll?”

  Cheech held up his crazy CSU suitcase. “Lead the way, Jack, and by the way, I have some of the ancient files in my car, locked up. We can compare notes when we’re done.”

  It was off to the back of the impound lot, it was hot, and the car was at the very back, in the corner, backed up to the fence.

  They all gloved up and then they watched as Vince Stoner, AKA Cheech, went to work. He dusted the steering wheel, the dash, the inside armrest, he dusted his ass off.

  “All I got is two unusable prints, Jack.” Cheech felt beaten. “I’m sure the car was wiped down, you know? I mean our records have zero fingerprints, not even these two crappy ones.” Cheech was frustrated; he so wanted to help with this case.

  “You mind humoring me, Cheech?” Jack squatted near the driver’s door.

  “Okay, what?” Cheech was serious about his job, even if he was a bit loony. He called himself a CSU operative, joking that he could pull a print off a gnat’s ass. He was determined to get something to help Jack.

  “Three places I’d like you to dust if you would.”

  “Where, Jack?” Cheech leaned over to see where Jack was pointing.

  “There, where the seat lever is, can you dust that, on the underside?”

  Cheech examined the area, it was small, but it was large enough to have a possible print.

  “I can give it a shot, who’s print you think you’ll find, the dead girl’s? I mean, I knew from the files her fingertips were cut off.”

  “No, whoever this woman was, she was short, only five feet one. If someone else had to drive her car, and that someone was say, right at six feet tall, they wouldn’t have been able to drive it without moving the seat back. See, the seat is upright, close to the steering wheel. They moved her body to the driver’s seat. I know she didn’t drive her dead self to that vacant wooded area. Do you think they dusted here, Cheech?”

  “Since I wasn’t here I wouldn’t know. If they missed a print, and it’s there, I should be able to pull one. I can also check to see if there’s a print on this lever too.” He pointed to the lever in the front of the seat, the control lever that moved the seat up so a short person could reach the gas pedal.

  “If he or she was taller, they’d have to move the seat back.”

  “Let’s see what we get. Give it a shot.” Jack was covering all the bases, as in no stone left unturned.

  Cheech started on the seat lever. He began dusting the dark area with a light dusting powder. His fingers were emotionally crossed. He wanted to find a print, any print that was usable.

  “Jack, I think I’ve got something here, by George.”

  Reaching for the print lifting tape, he placed it at where the print showed up from the dusting powder, smoothed it over, and then lifted the tape.

  “Lucky, reach in my case, hand me one of those white print cards, would ya?”

  Lucky handed him the white print card, he pressed the tape to the card, and then he pulled up the tape.

  “Uh-huh, Houston, we have fingerprints.” He stood up looking at what he had. “It looks to be the tips of two fingers, see…”—he pointed out—“I’d venture to say it’s the middle and ring finger of the left hand. It’s not a complete print. I’ll see if Latents can work with it.”

  Without a prompt, even though space was tight, he was able to get the white dusting powder on the small surface of the plastic seat lever that moved the seat backward and forward.

  “Nothing here, but it’s slick plastic and it’s very small. Even if we were able to get the part off and used superglue fuming, I’m afraid all you’d get would be a smudge.”

  Jack and Lucky stared at the white card with the two partial fingertip prints. Now they had a real lead.

  “Where else do you want me to dust, Jack?”

  “See the seat belt? The murder book said she was seat-belted in, and if that was the case, someone had to click it locked. You think you’re good enough to get the prints if there are any, here, and here?” He pointed to the edges of the metal seat belt, and to the back. “A possible thumbprint on the back of the seat belt clasp where the perp would have had to touch locking the seat belt clasp,” he told Cheech as Lucky stuck his head in at the front passenger door.

  They both watched as Cheech repeated the process on the seat belt clasp.

  “This area is too thin, let me try the back.” With his gloved hands, he turned the back of the seat belt clasp over. Taking the dusting powder, he dusted it on while the other two watched.

  “There’s something here, but it’s a big fat smudge, no good, damn it,” Cheech swore.

  “Where else, Jack?” Lucky wondered where a print might have been, that the original CSU team missed.

  “Let’s get someone to bring some tools over here, I want to take the seat belt off, and you can take it with you.”

  “We can do the superglue fuming on the cloth material, which I know wasn’t done because all the seat belts are intact.” Cheech smiled like the Cheshire cat. “Hell yeah, that’s a great catch, Jack.”

  Back at the impound office, Cheech put his request in with the manager.

  “As soon as the mechanic gets the seat belt off, I’ll get it over to ya, Cheech.”

  “Thanks, Jasper, appreciate it, man.” Jack waved.

  “Say, Cheech, you think you can meet us up at that mom-and-pop diner, you know the one that’s near Headquarters?”

  “That lady, I think her name is Bernice, she makes a mouthwatering apple pie. You wanna go over notes there, Jack?”

  “Yes, I’ve got a feeling there are some discrepancies, don’t you, Lucky?”

  “I agree with Jack-of-all-trades.” Lucky ha-ha’d as he hit the door to go out of the impound office; he was always trying to come up with “Jack words,” or “Jack sayings,” much to the real Jack’s dismay.

  “You’re an ass I can whoop. Cheech, do you see what I have to put up with?”

  “Better him than some of the other guys. Jack, I work with all you dicks and some of them are just that, great big dicks.” Cheech waved, pleased with his own humor as he headed to his car.

  Jack laughed as he turned his motor over. He knew what Cheech was talking about when he said that; not all the fellas in Homicide were bad, nonetheless, there were enough “dicks” in the entire department to give the others a bad name.

  At the small diner, they took a table at the back. �
�My notes don’t have any list of items that were tested for DNA. Not a rape kit either. It’s funny though,” Cheech said between bites of hot apple pie à la mode.

  “What is?” Jack took a forkful of blueberry cobbler and chewed.

  “I saw the pictures of the dead girl, she had some hair left, but they didn’t get any of that to save, and the swabs that were taken, hell, I couldn’t find them anywhere. There were no files on the blood spatter, and to be honest, the reports are very sketchy. If you want my opinion…” he said as he put the last bite in his mouth, waiting for one of them to respond.

  “Absolutely, Cheech, we’d like to hear what you think.” Jack took another bite of the scrumptious cobbler.

  “I’m not accusing anyone, but the M.E. on the case,” he looked at his file, “this Layton Conch, I believe, was on the take. I think he covered up stuff, doctored the reports. I saw the M.E.’s report, and the extensive reports I typically see aren’t there. Didn’t you notice that too, Jack?”

  “Kinda what I thought too.”

  “Plus, look at this notation I found.” Cheech handed Jack one page he pulled out of his binder.

  He read the handwritten note:

  The medical examiner, Layton Conch, said no rape kit was necessary, or any testing done on the pants or the scarves. If more items show up to be processed, immediately inform him.

  “Who wrote this?”

  Cheech shrugged. “No name and no initials. I’m sure whoever wrote it is long gone, man, this was twenty-five years ago.”

  “This does prove one point.” Jack looked at them both. “This was a cover-up and we need to pull the covers off.”

  “Jack, I’ll email you a scanned copy of the reports I have that don’t match your copies. Sorry, guys, I hafta bounce, got a couple of things hanging in the wind at the lab I need to finish before I head home.”

  “Thanks, Cheech, you’ve been a big help.”

  Jack and Lucky headed back to the station, so Lucky could get his car and go home.

  “I’ll see ya in the morning, partner.” Lucky saluted.

  Keyed up over the fingerprints, Jack was tense and his head began to ache. He knew that Cheech would get them to Latent Prints first thing in the morning with a message to jump on it. He had one piece of physical evidence with the prints, and he hoped that the DNA was another piece. What he needed was a way to match the DNA once Bennie received the report back. His gut told him that if he had to “bet the farm,” he was betting Troy Wolff’s DNA was all over the place. Waiting gave him a headache, Jack needed relief, he needed… he knew what he needed.

  He drove over to Gretchen’s side of town. He had no idea if she was even home. At least seeing her house, knowing it was a part of her might ease his tense nerves and stop the pounding in his head. He smiled, there were lights on in her house. He saw her shadow silhouetted on a window shade. She was home and he did not know if she would be glad to see him or not, and he was going to take that chance. Parking his truck on the street, he got out, went to the door, and he knocked.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Lucky had beaten him to the station and was already on his second cup of joe when Jack walked into their squad room.

  “Morning, sunshine,” Lucky said as Jack sat at the desk across from him, “running late this morning I see.”

  “I didn’t much sleep last night, but hey, that’s okay, I feel like I can conquer the world today.”

  “Jack, now dadgum it, here you are chipper again. Are you taking happy pills, or is it a woman, because, by golly, it’s one or the other.”

  He wished Jack would spill, but he wasn’t talking. Last night was just for him and Gretchen. Oh, it had not gone that far, but being near her, holding hands and kissing her, had eased his tensions, his headache, and his worries over this freaking cold case. He had needed to be near her, with her, and that had done the trick.

  “Okay, Jack, today is another day, hey, isn’t that what Scarlett O’Hara said,” Lucky taunted playfully.

  “No, it wasn’t.” She always said, “because tomorrow is…another day.”

  “You’ve watched Gone with the Wind, Jack?” Lucky snickered.

  “Uh-huh, with my mom way back in the day…and frankly, Lucky, my dear, I don’t give a damn”—he paused and then added—“what you think.”

  “Jack, we’ve hit a roadblock. That’s what I think, about our cases.”

  “You think we have? I’m over the moon with what Cheech was able to get for us.”

  “We have no live persons to talk to, except the ones we can’t find, that is. Okay, now what, buddy? We sit here with our thumbs up our…in our ear?” Lucky changed body parts to where they could stick their thumbs.

  “We get this freaking murder book updated, and your missing girl files updated, and we wait. It’s all we have right now. I wish we had some lead on who this Skip fella was, where Jed Logan is, and where Celeste Mason is hiding.”

  Lucky had to agree. Now it was a waiting game, and they needed a big fat break.

  . . .

  It was three o’clock, and 7-11 walked into the squad room.

  “You guys goofing off I see,” Jace Severson said as he took the chair behind his desk.

  “What have you two been up to, we haven’t seen much of you fellas, working a hot case?” Xi Chang walked up and stood next to Lucky’s chair.

  “Working a coupla’ cold cases the captain has us on, you guys catch one?” Jack wanted to steer away from the cases they were working. He would lie if he had to, but he hated doing that.

  “Yep,” Jace said, “caught one early this morning before the freaking sun was up.”

  “You did? Whatdaya catch?”

  “A club owner got rubbed out, over there close to North Shore.”

  Jack’s ears pricked up. “No kidding, what club?”

  Jace picked up his notebook. “It’s called the Station, some guy named Skip, Skip Johanson.”

  Jack glanced at his partner and gave him a slight headshake, as if to say, don’t say a word, he saw Lucky’s mouth open then shut.

  “Got any leads?” Jack tried to sound as nonchalant as possible.

  “They had cameras, so there’s video. They are getting us a copy and we’re going to pick it up this evening.”

  Jack laced his fingers together and placed them behind his head leaning back in his chair.

  “So, give us the story, we’ve hit a roadblock in our cases, tell us about yours, something fresh for us to think about.” Jack leaned back in his chair, so interested he was quaking inside, and hoped it didn’t show on his face.

  “They found this Skip fella dead at the side corner of the building. He took one shot in the head, execution style. He was shot with a nine mil,” Chang began, and Jace took over.

  “The club was closed, it was three-fifteen in the morning, and one of the bouncers was doing a walk around the building, checking for possible drunks, or people ‘doing it’ in cars.” Jace’s eyebrows wiggled up and down. “He told us that goes on every once in a while, and they have to roust the couples.”

  Chang stepped in. “Scared the bejesus out of him when he shined his flashlight at the corner of the building as he was rounding it…”

  “He almost stepped on the poor guy.” Jace finished his partner’s sentence.

  “Where are the cameras setting, you think you got a good angle?” Lucky asked.

  “The parking lot is lit, but just in the middle, not very much lighting on the back sides of the building, since no one is supposed to park there. We’re hoping it caught something, and by the way the angles of the cameras were se
t, we should get the perp as he was walking toward the building. The corner cameras give us the only chance to see the deed being done, that’s what we are hoping,” Xi told them.

  “Did anyone know why he was out there, or see him leave with anyone?” Jack was trying very hard not to get excited.

  Jace shrugged his big shoulders. “We questioned everyone there, but no one saw him leave, or so they say. Plus, no one heard a gunshot either. We’re thinking a silencer was used.”

  “No one knew anyone who would want to hurt or kill him, one of the bartenders said he was a sweet guy, even though he was a few marbles short, he was a super nice boss,” Xi added.

  Jack knew that was the same Skip, the one Daphne had told him about. The odds of this happening were like a million to one.

  The phone on Jack’s desk rang. “Homicide, West,” he answered.

  “Lucky and I will be right over.” Jack disconnected. “Sorry, fellas, Lucky and I have to go see a man about some fingerprints, hey,” he looked at both Xi and Jace, “keep us caught up with your case, like to know how it turns out.”

  “Sure, Jackrabbit, will do.” Jace Severson saluted him.

  “Goofball,” Xi muttered. Jace wadded up a piece of paper and tossed it at his partner’s head, missing him by a few inches.

  Out of earshot, Lucky was excited. “Jack, man, what are the odds that Skip gets whacked, I mean right now?”

  “I’d say since we were trying to find him and had no last name and he ends up dead, a kajillion to one, but I never in a gazillion years thought that your cold case and my cold case would be connected either.”

  “Was that Latent Prints that called?”

  “No, it was Cheech. He said the superglue fuming yielded a print. He wants to show us.”

  They were off to see a magician in CSU, Vince “Cheech” Stoner, who told Jack he had some good news.