by Harvey, JM
She knew that she should stop right there, call Jack Birch and get Rankin moved to an interview room at the DPD Headquarters in the Jack Evans Building. She was treading dangerous ground here. The law was clear, Rankin could talk to anyone he pleased, but this was a death penalty case. The scrutiny it would receive would extend to the highest levels of the judiciary. And she was stepping well out of her normal role as a prosecutor, not to mention the conflict of interest that would keep her from prosecuting the case herself, but Axel was ready to talk right now. She couldn’t take the chance that he’d change his mind.
“What did you want to see me about, Mr. Rankin?” She knew what she wanted to talk about: the phone call Rankin had received warning him of Bastrop and Jack Birch’s imminent arrival, but she had to let Rankin take the lead.
“Axel,” he said. “Call me Axel.”
Victoria shook her head. “Let’s keep this formal, Mr. Rankin.”
Axel shrugged. “Okay. What do I call you?”
“Mrs. Justice, will do,” Victoria said.
“No first name?” he smiled at her. The little creep was actually flirting.
“What did you want to see me about, Mr. Rankin?” she repeated flatly.
“Come on.” Rankin wasn’t going to let it go. He kept smiling. “It’s just a name.” But Victoria wasn’t playing along. She opened her briefcase, tossed in the pad and the pen and stood.
“See you in court, Mr. Rankin,” she said as she swung the briefcase off the table.
“Hey, hey, hey,” Rankin said with an easy laugh, rocking back in the chair. “That’s okay, Mrs. Justice. It’s cool.”
Victoria sat back down. She had a sudden idea, one that crossed all sorts of boundaries of judicial process, but she didn’t care. She pulled her cell phone from her purse and punched up her recorded conversation with Laroy Hockley and Jack Birch from yesterday. She had to know if it was Laroy who had called Rankin and warned him about Jack and Phil.
“I want you to listen to something,” she said as she hit play. She let only the first couple of minutes roll. Axel listened, his head bowed over the table. When it was done, he looked up at her, a questioning look on his face.
“Do you recognize that voice?” she asked. Axel nodded and her heart rate surged.
“That’s the old asshole that arrested me yesterday,” he said. “The hillbilly.”
Victoria shook her head. “No, the other voice.” She rewound and hit play again. Axel listened then shook his head.
“No. Who is he?”
Victoria was surprised at the disappointment she felt. Did she really hate Laroy that much? Yes, it appeared she did. But all she said to Axel was, “It doesn’t matter.” She picked up her phone and tucked it back in her purse.
Axel shrugged and asked his own question.
“Is it true you won’t be able to prosecute me?” he asked as she retrieved her pen and pad. “That’s what Lubbock said.”
“Someone else from the office will be taking the case,” Victoria said carefully. Her assistant, Charlie Baker, would be at the prosecution table, but, she made the decision at that moment, she would be ghosting the case from outside the courtroom even if she was called as a witness as Herby had threatened yesterday. But Axel didn’t need to know any of that.
“That’s a relief,” he said with another laugh. “You’re one tough chick. I saw you on the news last night. That was bad ass.”
“What did you want to see me about, Mr. Rankin?” Victoria asked one more time.
Rankin sighed. “Okay,” he said, but he didn’t immediately continue. He stared at the table, his smile and good humor dissolving before her eyes. The tough-guy mask fell away. Rankin sighed again.
“You ain’t gonna get a chance to kill me,” he said finally. “Old man Sutton will take care of that for you. Him and the White Boys. Right here in this building,” Rankin jerked his chin toward the ceiling and the jail tiers on the floors above.
“Why do you think Garland is going to have you killed?” Victoria asked. “Does he think you killed Abby?” That made sense. And, if it were true, Axel was right to be worried. Garland had spent most of his life in prison, running with the Dirty White Boys. She had little doubt that he could reach out and touch Axel Rankin even in the jail’s protective custody tier.
Rankin snorted. “You still don’t get it,” he said. “Garland probably killed Abby himself. Or had someone do it. Probably Deaf Smith.”
“Abby was stabbed twenty-seven times,” Victoria told him, watching his face for a reaction.
Rankin winced and pinched his eyes closed. “I didn’t need to know that,” he said. “I coulda gone the rest of my short-ass life without knowing that.”
“I doubt that her father would have killed her that brutally,” Victoria said though she had seen far too much on the job to actually believe it.
“Father,” Rankin said with a bitter laugh. “If Garland can’t steal it, kill it or stick his dick in it he ain’t interested. He’d kill his own grandma for fifteen million dollars. And Deaf Smith would hold the video camera.”
“Fifteen million dollars?” she asked in confusion. What the hell was Rankin talking about?
“Lamar and Lemuel’s money,” Rankin said, his voice dropping conspiratorially, his expression turning suddenly intense as his eyes locked in on hers. “The money they stole. That fifteen million dollars.”
Victoria remembered the TV news stories about the missing money and the gold coins from Martinson’s Wholesale Gold, but she hadn’t really followed them. The Suttons were a subject she avoided at all costs, a habit she had learned from Valentine, a concession to his brooding silences and dark moods.
“Let me get this straight,” she said. “Abby had fifteen million dollars and Garland Sutton or this Deaf Smith killed her for it?”
Rankin rolled his eyes. “No. Abby didn’t have no money, that was the problem. She was a minor when she won that settlement from the city. Her daddy kept the cash. Stole it from her. Used it to set up that church of his. But she knew where Lamar and Lemuel’s money was. Knew who had it.”
“Who?” Victoria asked as she started writing, her hand flying across the page. Rankin remained silent until Victoria looked up, her pen still moving across the yellow pad.
“She said it was the cop that crippled her,” he said. “He’s got the money.”
Victoria’s hand froze. “What?”
“You ever read the papers? Or watch the news? Vicious Valentine crippled her,” Rankin said impatiently. “Your husband.”
Victoria flushed. Her mouth popped open to offer an angry reply in defense of her husband, but she bit it off. She had dealt with enough crooks to know how to keep her feelings in check. The important thing was to keep Axel talking.
“And now Garland’s after it,” Rankin continued. “Abby couldn’t keep her mouth shut. Kept talking it up. How she was going to be rich. That’s what got her killed.”
Victoria started writing again, taking refuge in the activity, but her mind was racing. Axel was lying, she knew that for a fact. The accusation was laughable. She and Valentine sure didn’t have fifteen million dollars. They could barely afford the mortgage.
“They’re saying your husband killed Abby. I don’t believe it, but that’s what they’re saying. Garland and Deaf,” Rankin said.
Victoria’s pen froze again. This was getting worse and worse. Rankin’s bullshit statement was quickly moving Valentine up from an unlikely suspect in Abby’s murder to a dead ringer for lethal injection. It was all crap, but there were a lot of people who would love to believe it. Her eyes jumped to the video camera. And every word of this was being recorded.
“I think your husband was in on it with Lamar and Lemuel. From the beginning. Partners. He set up the scores. Took a share of the loot,” Axel continued in a whisper barely loud enough for her to hear. “That fat bastard, Lubbock too. Both of them was taking their cut.”
Victoria was gripping the pen so tightly that h
er fingers started to cramp. She dropped it on the pad and fixed her eyes on Rankin. The little bastard grinned back at her, so sure of himself as he cheerfully ripped her life to shreds. That grin infuriated her.
“What do you think you’re going to get out of this, Axel?” she snapped. “You think I’ll let you walk out of here? Give you a free pass?”
Axel’s grin broadened. “That’d be good,” he said, leaning back in his chair as much as he could in the shackles. “That and a little reward.”
Victoria was silent for a long moment, composing herself, reining in her anger, considering her next move. As a wife she could brush aside the accusation Axel was making, but as an employee of the District Attorney’s Office she had no choice but to pursue it. Especially with the cameras rolling.
“Did you ever see my husband, Valentine Justice, with Lamar and Lemuel?” she enunciated clearly for the recorder.
Axel frowned and shook his head. “I never met him,” he grudgingly admitted. “But Lamar told me about him. Lamar said the guy was an asshole. A cold-blooded killer. But they needed him. He gave Lamar big-money targets. The armored car job was his. Some of the dope dealers, too.”
“You keep saying ‘him’ and ‘his’,” Victoria pressed. “Did Lamar or Lemuel ever actually say Valentine’s name?”
Axel’s frown deepened. “They might have,” he said. “I don’t remember for sure,” he grinned suddenly, “but my memory could get better or worse, depending on that reward we was talking about.”
That confirmed it; Axel really was an idiot. He had just offered to commit perjury for a payoff. On video. But what he was saying about a cop working with Lamar and Lemuel made a lot of sense. It explained how the brothers had managed to hit so many lucrative targets and stay one step ahead of the cops for so long, but, if it was true, the dirty cop wasn’t Valentine.
“Why do they think my husband has the money?” she asked. “Why now? Four years later?”
Axel shrugged. “He was the last one with Lamar and Lemuel. Abby said he tortured them. Made them tell him where it was. Then he killed them.” Axel’s expression turned thoughtful. “It must have been Lemuel who told him. Lamar wouldn’t have given the Devil himself the time of day.”
Victoria made a decision at that point; she had to shut this down. Make some phone calls. Talk to Jack Birch. She was in over her head. She opened her briefcase and tossed the pen and pad inside. But Axel wasn’t done pleading his case.
“I need that money,” he said. “Just a hundred thousand, say, and I forget your husband entirely. I’ll even go to jail if that’s what it takes. Take a plea deal. For the cops, not for Abby. Say, twenty years?”
Victoria shook her head and said nothing. Axel wasn’t going to talk himself out of a Capital Murder charge. She stood.
Axel leaned forward, stretching the chains tight to his chest. “A hundred thousand is cheap. Just a pinch off the top of fifteen million.”
Victoria took up her briefcase and crossed to the exit. She stopped there and looked back. “We’ll talk about this later,” she replied as she rapped on the steel door. The female deputy, Foster, opened it.
“All done?” Foster asked.
“Yes. Thanks, Foster.”
Foster shook her key ring loose from her belt and crossed the room to Axel. She unhooked his shackles from the ring bolted to the floor.
“Get up, Rankin,” she told him.
“I’ll have them take you straight to protective custody,” Victoria told Rankin. “I’ll get you a public defender.”
Axel nodded and Victoria turned back to the hallway only to find her way blocked by Herby Lubbock.
“What are you still doing here?” she asked.
“My client—” Herby blustered.
“Fired you,” she finished for him.
“My client was denied counsel,” Herby said, pointing a finger at her again. “He’s a minor. My ward. He can’t fire me.”
Victoria was only half listening to Herby. She was looking past him, down the hall to where Big Sandy was opening the door to interview room two where she had left Randall Rusk and Albert Pico. Sandy stepped inside the room and Albert emerged, his briefcase in his hand. She caught his eye and raised an eyebrow. Albert gave her a brief nod; Rusk would give up his accomplice. A moment later, Big Sandy escorted Randall Rusk into the hallway. Randall shot Victoria a glare then turned angrily on Albert and started snarling curses. Good. A bright spot in a crappy day.
“Do you have a birth certificate?” Victoria turned back to Herby.
Herby sputtered and fumed, but he didn’t produce a document. He and Victoria had to step aside to allow Rankin to exit the interview room. Deputy Foster was right behind him, her right hand looped through the young biker’s waist chain.
Rankin looked at Herby and bared his teeth. “What are you still doing here?”
“What did she promise you?” Herby demanded. “Whatever it was, it wasn’t enough.”
Victoria sensed a threat in that.
“Who’s paying you, Herby?” she asked sharply, but Herby didn’t have time to respond before Randall Rusk started bellowing down the corridor.
“You got what you wanted bitch!” His squeaky voice reverberated off the concrete walls. Albert put a calming hand on Randall’s shoulder, but Randall wasn’t going to be calmed. He flicked Albert away with one massive paw. That’s when Victoria noticed that Randall’s hands were free, his manacles dangling empty from his waist chains. His ankle bracelets were also empty, dragging the floor between his clown-sized feet. Big Sandy noticed the shackles at the same moment. He reacted fast for a man his age: he leapt up on the monster’s back and went for a chokehold that had been banned for its brutality, but it wasn’t nearly brutal enough to tame Randall Rusk. The serial killer bucked the old deputy off then grabbed him by the arm and slammed him into the cinderblock wall with a meaty ‘thunk.’ Sandy’s knees went wobbly and his eyes spun out of focus. He never even saw the shank in Randall’s hand.
Victoria screamed “No!” as Rusk rammed the steel blade into Sandy’s throat and viciously ripped it free. Blood spilled across Sandy’s black uniform, covering the silver buttons in crimson as he went down, folding in on himself like a slaughtered bull.
“Sandy!” Foster, screamed as she pawed for the walkie-talkie on her belt.
Herby didn’t give a damn about Big Sandy. He shoved Foster so hard that she ricocheted off Victoria and into the wall, her head making a sound like a coconut falling on asphalt as it bounced off the cinderblock. Her eyes rolled up in her skull and she flopped to the floor, her walkie-talkie clattering on the tile beside her. Knocked off balance by the collision with Foster, Victoria just managed to keep her own feet under her, but Foster was out cold.
Herby pelted down the hall, his boots making a flat slapping sound on the concrete. When he reached the door, he threw himself against it and started beating the wire-reinforced window with his fists, screaming at the top of his voice: “Help! Help! Get me out of here!”
Victoria turned her back on him to face Randall Rusk.
Randall was still standing over Big Sandy who lay motionless in a spreading pool of blood. Suddenly, Albert Pico jumped onto his client’s back, trying the same maneuver that had gotten Sandy killed. For a wild moment Albert clung to Rusk’s back like a jockey trying to break a wild elephant, but Albert didn’t have a chance. Randall shrugged him off and sent him flying. Albert hit the floor on his back, his hair hanging in his face, the breath knocked from his lungs.
“I got a deal for you, counselor,” the killer said as he stooped down and drove the knife into Albert’s chest. Albert screamed, the sound thin and ugly. He thrashed and flailed his arms, battering Rusk’s forearms ineffectually as Rusk stabbed him again and again, pistoning the blade between Albert’s ribs a dozen times in half that many seconds. Albert wilted into the tile, blood pumping steadily from his mouth and the deep wounds to his torso.
The jail’s alarm began to ring, a screech t
hat almost covered the sound of boots pounding the concrete floor overhead. The cavalry was on the way, but they were going to be too late.
Randall Rusk straightened and turned on Victoria and Rankin. He was still grinning, his face dappled with blood, his orange jumpsuit wet with it.
“Ready to die, bitch?” he yelled, then dropped his head and charged.
24
“Sit up, asshole.” Erath said.
It took Val a moment to comply. His jaw was throbbing and his vision was out of alignment. He rolled over on his butt and spat blood in the grass. Pieces of cut grass clung to his face and his sweaty clothes, but there was nothing he could do about that with his hands cuffed behind his back. And he had more immediate concerns; the deputies were still waving their shotguns around filling the backyard with too much testosterone.
“My kids are on the porch,” Val said, the words coming out in a fuzzy monotone, “and I’m handcuffed. Think you can have them point those shotguns at the ground, deputy?”
“Kids?” Erath looked past Val to the back porch. He spotted the playpen and the boys staring goggle-eyed at the activity. “Whose kids are those?”
“Orphans,” Val replied. “Somebody dropped them off on the front porch,” He shrugged. “Last time it was a box of kittens.”
“Somebody should have known about the kids. We need a matron out here,” Erath said, lowering his weapon and looking sideways at one of his companions. Erath was pissed. Poor operational planning.
“We got Gruene,” one of the cops said. “She’s a woman. I think. And here she comes,” he added, dropping his voice, his eyes on the gate to the front yard.
Max started to cry.
“You’re scaring the kids,” Valentine said, starting to get really angry. “Put the guns away.”
“Shut up,” Erath said again as Gruene stopped at his elbow. The rest of the STU team had trailed her into the backyard. They clustered up and started chattering at each other.
