“Drew, this is Joel.”
“Yes, sir!” Drew Udek was Jacobs’s private investigator.
“Got a job for you,” Jacobs said. “In Maryland. How soon can you leave?”
“Is right away soon enough?”
Jacobs smiled. The guy always came through. “That would be fine. I need in-depth backgrounds on some people down there. Wendell Stein has the list. You can pick it up at the office before you leave.”
“I’m on my way,sir.”
“And, Drew, I want it all on these people. The complete picture. Strengths, weaknesses, a full bio.”
“No problem, Mr. Jacobs. I am somewhat familiar with that state.”
“Good. Now, I’m on my way down to Pennsylvania, then on to Maryland. Wendell will have my location, so check in with him and he’ll guide you through to me.”
“No problem,” Udek echoed. He’d gotten the message the first time.
As Jacobs hung up the phone he saw the pilot waving to him through the window. The plane was ready.
He closed his briefcase and stood up. From the tenor of the charging documents, they’d barely snagged IV Starke by his toenail. There was so little information to connect him to any crime, it was almost laughable. The man named Roscoe Miller was obviously the killer. And he had somehow drawn IV in for the ride.
Jacobs walked to the plane and entered. Soon he was strapped in and they were taxiing for takeoff. The phone call to Captain Henderson suddenly returned to his mind. “Do you want to talk to your client?” the officer had asked. At the time, Joel had declined. Police officers had a way of overhearing conversations “accidentally on purpose.” In an uncontrolled environment, IV could have blurted something incriminating, and the cops could have picked it up. If the phone was in the squad room, and IV spoke with the officers in hearing range, the eavesdropping would have been legal.
The jet accelerated to rotation speed, and the sharp nose lifted steeply in the air. Jacobs looked out the window as the ground dropped away precipitously. The scene was like a rocket launch, the ascent was so steep. Soon they were in the clouds, and then above, into a clear azure sky.
Jacobs returned to his thoughts. IV would know what to do. He’d be able to hold out until help arrived. He was a smart kid. But a doubt persisted.
Joel looked out the window again as earth and clouds reeled by below. Maybe he’d made a mistake. Maybe he should have talked to his client and told him to clam up.
Gardner, Jennifer, and Brownie stood outside the cell block area of the barracks. A steel door separated them from the narrow cage that held IV Starke.
“Okay, we’re here,” Brownie said. “Now what do we do?”
Gardner ran his hand through his hair. So far, they’d been lucky. They’d hitched a ride to Pennsylvania, and talked the captain into giving them a shot at Starke. From this point on, every move was crucial. They had to walk the Constitutional line, or risk losing whatever evidence they got from Starke. Gardner’s mind was grinding out a plan. “We all can’t go in,” he said.
“Only one,” Jennifer said.
“Yeah,” Gardner replied. “Only one.”
The three fell silent as the needle in Gardner’s mind spun toward his choice. “Don’t think I should do it,” he said, looking at Jennifer. “And you probably shouldn’t either.”
“So I’m elected,” Brownie said.
Gardner handed him the waiver form. “You’d better do the honors.”
“What’s our tack?” Brownie whispered.
A trooper walked down the hall, and the trio huddled together as he passed. “Lie and cheat. Whatever you have to do,” Gardner said. “Just get him to waive extradition. And get a statement. If you can.”
Brownie nodded. Again, deception was the name of the game. If they could trick Starke into cooperating without threatening or coercing him, it was perfectly legal. The Supreme Court said so. “Do my damn best,” Brownie said, seizing the door handle.
“Just make it quick,” Gardner admonished. Jacobs was on his way.
Brownie said okay and went through the door.
Gardner and Jennifer peered through the peep window.
Starke stood up when Brownie entered the cell area. Both Gardner and Jennifer got a look at him. In person, he was a far cry from Roscoe Miller. In fact, the resemblance did not leap out the way it had in the picture. Maybe it was the close-cut hair. Or the fashionable clothes. Or the way he moved his body. There was no slouching shuffle. No “go to hell” expression. IV moved smoothly, gracefully toward the officer, as if he were approaching a shot on the tennis court. His features were serene, his expression passive. Just then his eyes went past Brownie to the faces framed in the door’s tiny opening.
Gardner and Jennifer froze for an instant as they found themselves locked into a pale blue-eyed stare. The eyes turned icy for a millisecond, then warmed. But in that moment the resemblance to Roscoe came through. There was mystery in his pale eyes. And a hint of hostility.
Gardner pulled Jennifer away. “Let’s back off and let Brownie work,” he said.
Jennifer nodded. “He’s definitely…” Her words faded.
Gardner waited, but she didn’t continue. “Definitely what?”
“Scary…” Jennifer said.
“Yeah,” Gardner said, as an image suddenly flashed into his mind. Roscoe, Starke, the gun, and Granville. Evil blue eyes all around, focused on his son. “Get him, Brownie,” Gardner whispered as they walked from the cell. “Nail his ass!”
Brownie met IV at the bars. “Mr. Starke, I’m Joe Brown, county police.”
IV looked him over cautiously. “What’s this all about? Cops stopped me on the turnpike. Said I’ve been charged with murder.” His face twitched as he said the last word.
“We put a warrant out,” Brownie said. “Fella named Roscoe Miller said you were with him when he killed Addie and Henry Bowers. That makes you an accessory.” Brownie’s lies were off and running as he tried to provoke a response.
Starke didn’t flinch. “I don’t know anything about it.”
“There’s other evidence too. Fingerprints. Body hairs. A real good case against you, but Miller might get off…” He was using the same ploy against Starke that he’d used against Roscoe.
Again, there was no response. Starke was calm, nonreactive. “I really don’t understand…”
“Okay,” Brownie said casually, “we can discuss that later. Back home. First, you have to sign this form.” He slipped the extradition paper through the narrow opening in the bars.
Starke studied it carefully. “I need to check with my lawyer about this first…”
Brownie smiled. “Mr. Jacobs.”
IV nodded.
“We just talked to him,” Brownie said. “Made arrangements for you to return to Maryland. He’ll meet you there. Said to go ahead and sign the waiver.” As long as Brownie was lying, he might as well go all the way.
Starke frowned. “He said what?”
“Said for you to come back with us,” Brownie replied. “Since this is a Maryland case, it was decided it would be best to go back there to get things straightened out, rather than stay here. He said to go ahead and sign the waiver, and he’ll meet you back in the county.”
Starke looked skeptical. “When did you talk to him?”
“Few minutes ago. Before coming in to see you. He okayed everything.”
The skepticism lingered. That did not sound like something Joel Jacobs would do. “I think I’d better call and check on it first.”
Brownie smiled bravely. Starke was calling his bluff. “Okay with me.” If Jacobs could be contacted, they were dead.
The lock-up trooper was called and IV was provided a cordless telephone. In a moment, he had Wendell Stein on the line.
Brownie stood by and held his breath.
“Uh, yes, Mr. Starke,” Wendell said. “Mr. Jacobs is on his way.”
“What about the plans to go to Maryland?” IV asked.
Wendell p
aused. He didn’t know anything about that. He did know that Mr. Jacobs was going to Maryland eventually, but as to meeting IV there, he’d heard nothing about that.
“Shall I sign the waiver paper?” Starke asked.
Wendell was on the spot. If Joel Jacobs had arranged to meet his client in Maryland, and Wendell nixed it, his boss would crucify him. But if it was not planned, and Wendell okayed it, he’d be flogged. Either way, he’d suffer. He put Starke on hold, and tried to contact Jacobs at the airport, but the call would not go through. “You can reach me in Maryland tomorrow,” Joel had said. Wendell decided to take a chance.
“Sign the papers,” he instructed his boss’s client.
IV hung up the phone and took the pen from Brownie’s hand.
Prentice Academy was abuzz. The storm had roared across campus, blowing over commencement chairs, uprooting the refreshment tent, and sending the celebrants screaming for cover. And in the midst of that chaos there was a procession of police flowing in and out of IV Starke’s dorm.
Headmaster Charles had finally managed to pull away from a group of parents on the pretext of fleeing the storm. Racing to Starke’s room, he found the stop team digging through IV’s possessions like madmen. He called Kent King from the student’s phone, and minutes later King arrived.
The attorney reached the room as two hefty police officers wheeled in a set of acetylene torch bottles.
”How can they do this?” Charles asked worriedly.
King spoke to one of the officers and procured a copy of the warrant. He scanned it and handed the paper to the headmaster. “They think your boy Starke has some evidence hidden away,” King announced.
Charles reviewed the document and glanced up at King. “Oh, God!”
“Step out of the room, please!” The team leader suddenly approached the intruders and plowed them toward the door with his massive frame. In the background, the torch was being lit, and a masked figure crouched by the safe.
“Okay, okay,” King said, backing toward the door.
The huge officer kept advancing until the attorney and the headmaster were outside the room. Then he stationed two of his men to block the entrance.
Headmaster Charles was working overtime on the handkerchief in his sweaty hands. “This isn’t right,” he whispered to King.
The attorney had risen to his tiptoes in an effort to see over the shoulders of the guards. The torch man was etching the safe door with a dagger of flame, and there was an acrid smell of burning in the air. King lowered himself and seized Charles by the lapel, leading him out of earshot of the officers in the room. “What are you so nervous about?” King asked. “Is there anything in there that you should be afraid of?”
Charles continued mopping his hands. “Don’t think so…” he said. “But…”
King casually crossed his arms. “But what?”
“If anything does come out. they’ll close down the school! Our reputation… the finances…” His words were almost hysterical.
King smiled. “You’re forgetting something.”
Charles stopped fidgeting.
“You hired me to make sure it doesn’t,” King said smugly.
The headmaster took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. “But the police think Starke and Miller killed the Bowers. They’re both connected to the school. This is a disaster…”
King put his hand on Charles’s shoulder and squeezed the nerve. The headmaster winced. “You’d better calm down,” King said. “Nothing is going to happen. The whole case is bogus. Against Miller. Against Starke…” His face twisted into a sneer. “Lawson doesn’t have a thing he can use in court! He’s so upset his boy got hurt he’s making mistakes all over the place. Nobody has a thing to worry about.”
Just then a cheer went up in the room. King rushed to the door and peeked over a shoulder.
The safe was open, and the cops were busy extracting its contents. King shifted to get a better view.
They were piling documents on the table, labeling them, and placing them in plastic bags.
The headmaster pushed against King’s spine. “What do you see?” he whispered excitedly.
The attorney turned suddenly. “Go back to your office and wait for me there!”
Charles retreated slowly, then picked up his pace until he was almost running.
King smiled. “Damn worrywart,” he whispered to himself. Then he arched up on his toes again.
The safe was empty now, and all of the items inside were neatly stacked on the desk, each in the protective cover of an evidence bag.
King scanned the faces of the officers in the room. Most were familiar. Officers he’d run across in court. He caught the eye of a stop team member and signaled a greeting.
The officer, an older member of the group, issued a subtle acknowledgment with his eyes.
King cocked his head slightly and sent a message: meet me outside.
The officer’s eyes barely flickered: okay.
A short time later King was in the quadrangle. The grounds crew was busy rounding up the scattered chairs, and the burr of a chainsaw suddenly erupted in the distance. He surveyed the damage. The winds had snapped some tree limbs and wreaked havoc with the furniture, but the structures were intact. The sun was out again, dipping toward the ridge line, and the humidity was starting to creep back.
“Kent,” a deep voice said from behind.
King turned as officer Barry Light walked toward him, his arms stacked with envelopes.
“Hi, Barry.” King smiled warmly. “What’d you get?”
The policeman scanned the area and signaled “walk with me” with his chin.
King fell in beside him.
“Records mostly. Family histories. Birth certificates. Death certificates. Stuff like that.”
“What else?” King whispered. He was sauntering casually, as if they were simply sharing the sidewalk.
“Bunch of cash bands. Hundreds. Thousands…”
“Any cash?” King’s mouth barely moved.
“Not a penny.”
King glanced at the stack of folders. “Anything else?”
The officer slowed his pace. They were nearing the parking lot.
“Yeah. Some weird shit.”
King slowed to keep abreast, his ears tuned.
“Tattoos—temporary tattoos.”
King stopped suddenly, and the officer halted with him.
“You got’em with you, Barry?”
The officer glanced around nervously, then sifted through the pile in his arms. In the meanwhile, he’d resumed walking. “Uh-huh,” he whispered.
“Let me see’em,” King said.
“How?” They were almost to the police car.
“Drop the bag, and I’ll pick it up,” King whispered.
They reached the car, and the officer suddenly got clumsy. The evidence bags squeezed out of his arms and scattered on the gravel.
King bent down to help, and picked up one of the square plastic casings. He lingered for a moment in a crouched position, studying a set of multicolored decals through the clear cover. Then he stood up and handed the envelope to the officer.
“Thanks, Kent,” Light said.
“No, Barry,” King replied with a smile. “Thank you.” Then he turned and walked nonchalantly away, pondering what he’d just seen. Starke had a thing for tattoos, that was clear. But his choice of designs was interesting. Some of the grotesque images looked damn familiar. A lot like the markings that ran the length of Roscoe Miller’s arms.
Granville sat by the window of his grandmother’s house and looked out. It was dusk and the fireflies were swarming.
“Lightning bugs,” he called to his mother. “Can I go out and catch some?” It was a once-a-year treat. A chance to trap stars in a bottle, put them beside the bed, and get twinkled to sleep.
“Come away,” Carole called. “Come away from the window.” She was still keeping her son sequestered.
“Can I?” the boy begged, his face droo
ping.
“No!” Carole said sternly. “Not now. Not tonight.”
“When?” Granville asked.
Carole looked at him in silence. “When?” was a good question. Gardner had phoned earlier and spoken to her mother. He was calling from Pennsylvania to say the coast was clear. They had two men in custody, and the danger was over. Please tell Carole to come home, he’d said. Please!
Carole looked at her son. He was so small. So vulnerable. He wanted to go outside and play, but if she had her way he’d never go out. There were too many things she could not control out there.
“When can I go out?” Granville repeated. The imprisonment was taking its toll. He was getting restless.
Carole stroked his blond hair with her hand. “Maybe tomorrow,” she answered. Then she thought about what she had just said. Tomorrow. What was going to happen tomorrow? If they went home, Gardner was just going to start again, getting Granville stirred up, getting him involved in the case.
Granville sneaked back to the window and looked at the dancing lights.
No! Carole thought. She was not going to let it happen again. One way or another, she was going to protect her son. Even if it meant keeping him away from his own father. Just then, she noticed that Granville had strayed back to the forbidden zone.
“Granny!” she said sternly. “I told you to get away from the window.”
And when the boy didn’t move, she took him by the arm and led him back to the center of the room.
The helicopter was aloft again, heading back to Maryland. Inside was the prosecution crew: Gardner, Jennifer, and Brownie. And their prisoner, cuffed hands and feet, strapped into the jump seat in the rear of the cockpit.
The sun was below the horizon, and the knobby west Pennsylvania hills were turning purple beneath them. The engine was at max power, and they vibrated and shook with the scream of the turbine.
A coup, Gardner thought. They’d pulled a coup. Swooping down out of the sky they’d snatched their man and escaped. A couple of well-placed lies had smoothed the way, but now they had Starke in custody, and there was no way he was going to wiggle out.
Gardner smiled to himself. The law was strange sometimes. If you could get a criminal defendant into the jurisdiction where he was charged, you could always prosecute him. The courts didn’t care how he got there. You could do almost anything, legal or illegal, and it didn’t matter. In the county, he was fair game.
Silent Son Page 18
