Foster turned. He was in his forties, and there’d been some rough miles in there. His long hair, pulled back into a ponytail, was predominantly gray, but black streaks still ran through it. A full beard and mustache partly covered his pockmarked face. The well-worn leather jacket seemed too large for his slim frame.
He narrowed his eyes. “You the cop who called?”
Jack got the feeling Hank wanted to talk alone, and saying “cop” loudly cleared the porch, leaving the two of them alone.
“Jack Stratton.” They shook hands.
“What did you find out about Tiffany?”
“You’re aware that she’s dead?”
“Yeah. Who do you think paid for the funeral? You got anything new?” Hank took a step forward.
“I’m sorry to say, no. I was calling about Charlie Harding when you brought up Tiffany. Interesting you filed two missing person reports. One of them is dead and I’m concerned for the safety of the other.”
“Me too.”
They stared at each other for a moment, then Hank relaxed.
“So you still have nothing,” Hank said. “Jeez.”
“How did you know Tiffany?” Jack asked.
“Man. I try to do the right thing and I get looked at?” Hank flicked his cigarette off the porch.
“If you want to do the right thing, just answer a couple of questions.”
“Fine.”
“How did you know Tiffany?” Jack asked again.
“I was her sponsor.”
“I thought AA didn’t allow opposite-sex sponsors.”
Hank peered at Jack. “Are you in the program?”
“Was. You sponsored Tiffany?”
“Not officially, but she was the same age as my daughter. I thought I could help.”
“What happened?” Jack relaxed his guard a little but resisted the urge to lean against the railing.
“She missed a meeting. I called her—nothing. She missed more. I freaked. I kept going to the police, but they don’t care about whores, even if they’re kids. I filed the report, and they called a couple of days later and said she was already dead.”
“She OD’d injecting meth.”
Hank jumped up so fast that Jack’s hand instinctively went out in front of him. “That’s a lie.”
“Easy.”
“You don’t give a—”
“Hey, I’m the cop who’s here right now looking into this, so how about you just answer my questions?” Okay, not officially, but… “First, why do you think it’s a lie?”
Hank paused. “She didn’t do meth.”
“She did drugs?”
“Not meth.”
“Could it have been the first time?”
“Not meth.”
Jack was getting frustrated. “She did drugs and was a prostitute. Why would she not do meth?”
“She said she saw someone go nuts and start ripping at their skin. It freaked her out. I know it sounds weird, but she was different. And she never shot up. She never would. She hated needles.”
“Enough to never do meth?” Jack shook his head. “Even if she was desperate?”
“Even if she was in total withdrawal. I went through that with her. It was bad. Real bad. She didn’t do needles. I know people who are so freaked they don’t fly. They won’t get on a plane for any reason. She was like that with needles.”
“So what do you think happened?”
“I don’t know. I’ve gone over it in my head. She was trying real hard. She was clean. No drugs and no booze.”
He’s not telling me everything. “Hank, look, I’m trying to find out what happened. I’m trying to help. Don’t hold out on me.” Jack took a step forward.
Hank looked up at the night sky. “She was having money issues. I offered her what I could, but it wasn’t much. She couldn’t ask her parents. It might have been she ran down for a quick trick.”
Down to the Imperial. The smokers were pounding up the stairs now to get back into the warm meeting room, again giving Jack and Hank a once-over. They waited until the stampede passed.
“Okay. What can you tell me about Charlie Harding?”
“Not much.”
“Were you his sponsor?” Jack asked.
“Yeah. Not for long. He’d had it hard but he was a good kid. Him, there wasn’t a drug he wouldn’t take.”
“What happened?”
“Just disappeared. He was living at the shelter, so the stinking pigs—sorry, the police—just assumed he moved on. I haven’t heard from him since. Is he dead?” Hank asked.
The question took Jack by surprise. Best to be honest, but he didn’t have to tell Hank how close to death Charlie had looked in that video. “I don’t know. Your report is the last official document in the file. When were you last in touch with him?”
“Maybe a few weeks before Halloween. He was happy. He’d just gotten a job, a crappy gig washing dishes, but it was work.”
“What do you think happened?”
Hank shrugged. “No idea, but I sure hope he’s not dead.”
It doesn’t look good, Hank.
Jack held out the mug shot. “This him?”
Hank held the picture and didn’t say anything but he nodded morosely.
“Do you know if he’d ever been to White Rocks Eastern University?”
“Yeah, I took him there.”
“For what purpose?”
“I do this Scared Straight thing every year. You know, scare the crap out of rich kids. Tell them how drugs screwed up my life.”
“Charlie went with you? When did you go?”
“When school first started. September? The professor uses us to kick off the class. I know it’s a dog and pony show, but it’s a chance to warn them.” Hank shrugged.
“You know the professor’s name?”
“Dr. Franklin.”
Yeah, I thought so. “Did Tiffany ever talk to the class?”
“No.”
“So she never went with you?”
“No.”
“Did either Charlie or Tiffany ever say anything about going there again?”
Foster shook his head as he lit another cigarette. He looked as tired and drained as Jack felt. It was time to end the interview, even if he didn’t have all the answers he needed.
“Okay then, Hank. Thank you for your time.”
Jack nodded. Hank did the same but didn’t extend a hand, so neither did Jack.
As Jack walked away, Hank called to him. “Hey, I know Tiffany didn’t do meth, no way. I’m telling you, that girl got jacked.”
33
Speed Kills
Jack groaned and rubbed the back of his neck. Six o’clock, and Replacement still wasn’t back. He’d spent three days going back and forth over all his notes and the police reports. He started a new notebook and copied everything over to organize it; created a timeline, starting with Charlie Harding in September at the college. His only deduction so far was that sitting at a desk all day and night doesn’t exactly count as physical rehab. His leg was still killing him, though he wouldn’t admit that to the doctor.
He pulled his sweatshirt on and headed out for a walk. He needed to think and build up his strength. He looked down the stairs with dread. The deep muscles in his thigh still throbbed. The hardest part of going down the steps was trying to put all his weight on one leg. When he finally made it out the front door, it wasn’t that cold. He’d walk down to Finnegan’s and then up toward the library and back. His usual two-mile lap.
He picked up the pace as his thoughts turned to Replacement. She was “borrowing” the car every day to get to her job. Not having his car was turning out to be a major logistical problem. He was considering picking up a used car for her.
Great, now we need another car and a new place.
A car horn sounded behind him, and Mrs. Sawyer pulled up alongside him. The boat of a car she drove made her appear even smaller than she already was.
Over the half-open window, her old eye
s twinkled. She greeted Jack and asked him if he liked the flowers she sent when he was in the hospital.
“I loved them. Thank you so much.”
As he got close to the car, she pulled him halfway in the window and gave him a big hug.
“You’ll have to stop by. I made cherries jubilee that will put you into sugar shock.” She patted his cheek and winked.
I have to visit Aunt Haddie tomorrow.
“I will. Has everything been nice and quiet?”
“Not a peep around the house,” she proclaimed and squeezed his hand. “All thanks to you.”
Nice to know he could always count on Mrs. Sawyer to make him feel he was useful as a cop. He cringed as she drove in the wrong lane for fifty feet before crossing back into her lane.
As he headed back into town, he realized it was Tuesday. He yearned for a real work schedule. His frustration caused his body to tense, and he stumbled on a crack in the sidewalk. He uncurled his clenched fists and shook his hands.
He needed some way to ask questions at the college. Franklin’s name was coming up too often. Maybe he could call Hahn and say he was organizing something for Haddie, a remembrance book from Michelle’s friends… Yeah, that should work. And while I’m out there, I’ll look up Franklin.
As Jack looked left to cross the street, he noticed—for the second time—a guy in an oversize blue parka. The first time was two miles back, when he first came out of the apartment.
Don’t rush. Left. Right. Left, right. Swing your arms normally. Look around a little.
He kept walking straight for a while, straining to hear anything behind him, then took a left down a little side street. A couple of people walked down the sidewalk; a few cars were parked along the curb. He jumped into the shadow of a doorway and pressed his back against the wall.
Wait. Listen.
He tried to drown out the sounds of cars, people talking, shop doors opening and closing.
Footsteps. Running.
The guy in the parka ran past him. His face was gaunt and marked with sores. Another addict.
He was about an inch taller than Jack, and judging by his thin face, Jack figured he weighed under 180.
Jack stepped out from the doorway. “Looking for me?”
As the man spun around, Jack could see a pair of glazed eyes that gave away a world of information.
Wired. Scared. Mad. Crazy. Great time to leave your gun at home.
His pupils were gone, and there was a creepy grin on his face. He took three steps toward Jack and lunged.
Jack sprang forward; his hand came down to block, and he saw a knife headed for his gut. He scooped it to the side, but as he went to grab the guy’s wrist, he realized something was wrong. The thumb is the weakest part of the grip, but as Jack twisted the addict’s hand, it wouldn’t open.
The knife is duct-taped to his hand.
Jack pushed forward and stepped to the left, taking himself out of the knife’s path, but the motion placed too much weight on his injured leg. Pain shot up his thigh, and his scream of agony turned into a guttural growl. His leg shook and went limp.
Jack fell backward and pulled the junkie with him as he fell. He held on to the guy’s knife hand while they crashed into a parked car and landed on the sidewalk.
He twisted the guy’s wrist fast and hard. Something snapped.
The man screamed, but so did Jack as the man’s knee landed right on his injured thigh. Jack’s hand reflexively opened, and the guy pulled his injured arm away. With his other hand, the junkie punched Jack in the face. A quick punch, but it caught Jack across the chin with plenty of power behind it. While Jack tried to clear his vision and spit the blood out of his mouth, the junkie stumbled backward.
Jack rolled onto his side and pushed himself up, but his thigh muscles contracted, and he fell right back down.
The junkie turned and ran.
Jack howled in frustration. He’d never be able to catch the guy. As he fumbled for his phone, a small crowd rushed toward him, asking if he was okay and if he needed help.
Jack punched in a number he could dial in his sleep.
“Darrington Police,” the dispatcher answered.
“Bev, this is Jack. A guy tried to knife me. Need pursuit.”
“Where?”
“He’s running south down Oak. Male suspect about six feet, one eighty, dark-blue parka, blue jeans and boots. He has a knife taped to his broken wrist.”
“Broken wrist? So he has a cast on his arm?” she asked as she repeated his information over the radio.
“No, but his wrist is broken.”
“How do you know?”
“I broke it.”
Jack stretched his leg to try to get the circulation flowing. He winced and his eyes narrowed.
Finally, a live suspect.
34
Loose Ends
“I’ll see you later. I won’t be home until late,” Replacement called on her way out of the apartment. Jack heard her pick up the car keys from the hall table and then open and close the front door.
“’Bye.” Jack stared at the door. A whiff of her perfume wafted toward him. Another thing to add to the list of mysteries recently, and at the top of the list was her work, which she kept saying was no big deal but seemed to require her presence every day for many hours, always wearing makeup and perfume…
Something’s up.
He shook himself out of his thoughts and moved back to the computer. He certainly didn’t mind having the apartment to himself again, and he’d almost gotten used to being without a car. After a swig of coffee, he got back to work. His attacker had vanished. They had an APB out in all the surrounding towns, but Bennie was a ghost.
Jack had picked the man’s mug shot out in under thirty minutes: Bennie Mayer, from Rockland. He had a long list of priors: B&E, assault, marijuana, cocaine, and meth. Bennie also did time off and on.
Jack stared out the window, aggravated. He wanted to be out looking for Bennie the Goon right now, but on top of everything else, his injuries were screaming again after their wrestling match.
The guy was watching my apartment. Waiting for me. It wasn’t random.
Jack saw the man’s face, saw his eyes.
I don’t think he started out trying to kill me. He just wanted to follow me. When I surprised him, he panicked. He was scared.
Jack had seen it before. He’d never met anyone who killed and just tossed it off, all in a day’s work. Most people were freaked out at taking another person’s life; very few were just plain evil. Most were scared, and their fear turned into anger or need or hatred, and that’s when they killed.
This guy had looked like that, like he could have run, but he chose to kill instead. It might have been the drugs, but Jack saw him make the decision.
Jack pulled up a list of hospitals in the surrounding area and groaned. It was going to be a long day.
He had spent hours calling every nearby hospital. When that turned up nothing, he called every regional clinic. Finally, he ran through the alphabet and called doctors’ offices. No one had walked in with a broken wrist. Nothing.
Switch gears. I’m spinning my tires. He was reporting back to work the next day and he wanted to show he hadn’t just been wasting his time off.
Jack flipped to Tiffany’s autopsy report. No sexual assault. Meth OD. As expected, a ton of medical jargon. Jack kept hitting the page-down key.
The autopsy photos were all high-resolution and took forever to load. They had photographed the entire body, but Jack wanted to see a close-up of her face. The pages continued to load until that face filled the monitor. Jack shut his eyes for a second. He’d seen death many times, but it still made him feel surreal. And angry.
Maybe all I can do for her is find the monster that did this.
He scanned around her eyes, looking for something. There was slight bruising around the right eye. And there it was. He clicked and zoomed in. It was faint, very faint, but clear. A small rectangular patch on he
r cheek.
Her eyes had been taped open.
The medical examiner can find out a lot more, but it’s there. Just like Charlie Harding.
Jack leaned back in his chair and made a new list.
The computer lab has Michelle’s phone with the video of a guy getting tortured. I have proof it’s related to Tiffany’s death. They can get a warrant with that.
Tomorrow, lay it all out to Joe face-to-face.
Once they get the video, I can fill in the details of who and what and lead them to Tiffany.
They’ll have to reexamine Michelle’s autopsy photos for tape around her eyes.
He got up and stretched. His leg hurt from sitting for so long. I should tell Joe right now.
He dialed Joe Davenport’s cell phone and voice mail picked up. It was dinnertime; he could try again later. He looked over his notes again and saw only loose ends. But one of those ends hadn’t even been tried yet—Western Technical University. Still afternoon out in California.
After Jack explained who he was to three separate people, and was put on hold each time, an hour had passed and he hadn’t even asked a question yet.
“Mr. Wellington’s office, how can we help?” The woman had an irritating singsong voice.
“How can you help? Miss, I have been on hold for over an hour. I’m calling concerning my sister Michelle Carter. She supposedly transferred to your college but then… she was killed.” Jack heard the woman gasp. Maybe he had her attention now. “Can you please answer a few questions about her transfer?”
“I’ll certainly do whatever I can to help, sir.”
“Michelle Carter…”
“I’m looking at her transfer now, sir.”
“Did she register for classes?”
“Yes. She signed up for a full course load.”
“Did she sign up for housing?”
“No.”
“Meal tickets?”
“No.”
“Library access?”
“No.”
“Anything besides the classes?”
“Not that I can see.”
“How long does it take to get approved for classes?”
Detective Jack Stratton Box Set Page 21
