No Escape (No Justice Book 2)

by Sean Platt

  Sue piped up again. “He livestreamed it on LiveLyfe! Dude fucking snapped!”

  “Shit, I always knew something was wrong with that guy. Seemed a little too nice. My wife and daughter said I was too paranoid. Hah! Figured he was either queer or a pervert. What man has two boys and volunteers to coach a bunch of high school girls?”

  “You said your daughter is on his team?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What’s her name?”

  “Katie, with an ‘ie.’” Color fled his face. His eyes went wide. He looked toward his house, then back at Mal. “Was anyone with him? When you found him? I know his wife and kids are outta town, but …”

  “No. Why?”

  Daryl sighed, long and heavy. “Katie sometimes goes over to practice in his back yard.”

  The baby started crying. Mal wondered if he realized his mother was a horrible person. “Okay, okay,” Sue said to the kid, then, “I gotta go feed Brandon. If you need anything else, you got my number.”

  “Yes, ma’am. Thank you,” Mal said, glad to have her gone.

  Sue waddled away in her cloud of smoke.

  Mal turned back to Daryl. “You said that you thought something was wrong with the coach. Did he do or say anything to make you suspicious?”

  “Nah, if he did, I wouldn’t have let Katie on the team. Sometimes people just give you a vibe, ya’ know?”

  She did. Mal was getting one now. Daryl was a racist homophobe.

  “The man was always acting like he was better than me, and stuff.”

  “How so?” Mal asked, taking notes.

  “I dunno, just the way he’d look at me. He had money, not sure where he got it, but I doubt he ever worked a real job. And he loved to flaunt it — he’d take the kids out to eat at expensive restaurants after games. He even bought Katie an iPhone for her fourteenth birthday. Who buys a phone like that for someone else’s kid?”

  “An iPhone? Kind of an expensive gift.”

  “That’s what I said. I told her to give it back.”

  “Did she?”

  “Of course,” he said with the authority of a man who had complete dominion over his teenage daughter. Mal wondered if he truly exerted that much control or if it was only delusion.

  “Did you ever see him act inappropriately with any of the girls?”

  “No. He was a bit of a fruit; you know what I’m saying?”

  Mal nodded, hiding her disdain.

  “Why you askin’? Did you guys find anything?”

  “It’s still early in the investigation,” Mal said for what felt like the hundredth time that hour. “We’re looking at all possibilities. Would it be possible to talk to Katie? Is she home?”

  Daryl looked from the house to Mal.

  “I dunno. My wife’s car is gone, but we can check.” Sal turned and headed back toward his house.

  Mal followed.

  **

  Every member of law enforcement has seen places where it didn’t seem possible for humans to live. Houses that looked nice on the outside but were nightmares inside. Filthy, full of vermin, a reek that lingered for days.

  But occasionally, Mal was pleasantly surprised.

  Some homes looked old and decrepit on the outside but were nice on the inside. That was the situation with Daryl’s single-story ranch-style house. The lawn was overgrown. A pair of broken cars marred the driveway, and a third was killing the grass. The garage door was crumbling and slightly ajar. The home’s chipped paint was best described as a hopeless beige.

  Mal and Mike followed Daryl through the front door. She was expecting dark and dusty, knee-deep in a hoarder’s sea of miseries. But the interior of the small house was immaculate. Relatively bright. Furniture and appliances were all at least a decade old but in excellent condition. The carpet was clean, free of debris, animal hair, or the stains Mal would have expected to see in a run-down home. The living room opened to a kitchen on the right and another pair of bedrooms on the left.

  Two things jumped out immediately to Mal: the giant wooden cross in the living room, and its location — directly on the wall facing the couch, the spot where most family homes had a TV.

  Unless they had televisions in their bedrooms, they appeared to be one of few homes Mal had been in without one.

  Nor did she see a computer, tablet, or cell phone.

  Sitting on the coffee table was a selection of knitting, sewing, and magazines — all arts and crafts titles. Beside them, a large Bible.

  There were two chairs in addition to the couch. One was a small armchair, and the other was a plush brown leather recliner. Beside that was a wooden stand stuffed with newspapers and hunting magazines.

  “Katie!” her father bellowed, much louder than he needed to.

  One of the bedroom doors opened to Katie, a scrawny blonde wearing a long dress like something out of Little House on the Prairie. Her hair was pulled back in a loose pony tail. Fifteen or sixteen years old.

  Katie’s eyes weren’t red. But they were puffy. Mal suspected she had been crying or had allergies.

  “Yes, father?” Her voice timid, eyes worried like she was in trouble.

  “The police here would like to talk to you about Coach Kincaid.”

  The girl looked spooked. She knew something for sure.

  “Hello, Katie. I’m Detective Mallory Black, and this is my partner, Mike Cortez. We’d just like to talk to you about your coach. Is there a place we could sit down?”

  Daryl walked to the kitchen and pointed to a small table. “You all can chat here.”

  Mal and Mike sat on one side of the rectangular table, Katie sat on the other.

  “You all want a drink?” Daryl asked.

  “No thanks,” said Mike and Mal together.

  Daryl grabbed a Coke from the fridge, popped the tab, then sat beside his daughter. He scraped the chair against the floor, sat with his elbows claiming most of the table, and looked at them as he guzzled his drink.

  At first, Daryl had seemed rightly concerned about his daughter being around the coach suspected of shooting up a ball field before ending his own life. But his body language now said something else: Daryl was threatened by their presence.

  And Mal wanted to know why.

  Did he have something to do with the coach’s death? Did he find out the coach was abusing his daughter, so he handled the matter himself?

  Mal would have to find out where he’d been this morning, but—

  Daryl reached over to put an arm around Katie. She flinched ever-so-slightly.

  Mal knew that flinch. She’d seen it countless times. In wives and girlfriends living with a domineering or abusive man.

  Mal’s heart sank further. “How well did you know Coach Kincaid?”

  Katie looked at her dad as if seeking permission to open her mouth. He nodded, took another drink, and started eyeballing Mike.

  “He’s been my coach for two years.”

  “I told her mother she didn’t need to be on some damned soccer team. But noooo, she thought it was good to interact with kids her age.”

  Mal and Mike traded glances.

  “What do you mean ‘interact with kids her age?’” Mike asked.

  “We homeschool Katie. And Lynn, bless her naive heart, thought Katie needed to be around more kids her age. I told her the church has plenty of kids.”

  “They’re not my age,” Katie said. “They’re all either way younger or way older.”

  “What about that Kenny kid? He’s in the same grade as you.”

  “Kenny is a dork,” Katie whined.

  “Well, at least he’s not in a gang or one of those skanks on your soccer team.”

  Katie said nothing. This was clearly an ancient argument.

  Mal steered the conversation back to the coach. “So, your father said you’d go to his house, and he’d coach you.”

  “Yes. He was very nice.”

  Mal noted her use of past-tense. Maybe a neighbor had called the house and told her what had hap
pened, or Katie had seen the sheriff’s deputies or news crews surrounding the crime scene. But Mal suspected something else.

  Getting to that something else in front of her father was delicate. She didn’t want to get the girl in trouble. But a case needed to be worked, and Mal couldn’t concern herself too much with the kid’s possible fallout.

  “So, how did you meet?” Mal asked.

  “The soccer league had put some flyers up at our church.”

  “Does he go there?”

  “Sometimes. It’s one of those teams that’ll take anyone, no matter how good you are. But I spent my first year on the bench. And I was awful the few times I did get to play. I was about to quit, but he talked me into staying, and offered to help me practice a few times a week.”

  “Did you ever see him act inappropriately with any of the girls? Or maybe heard rumors?”

  “Oh, no, ma’am. Everybody loved him.”

  Daryl snickered, stood, then went to the fridge for another Coke. She spotted several cases of Budweiser in the fridge and bet he couldn't wait for her to leave so he could get good and drunk.

  “Did he ever act inappropriately toward you?”

  The slightest hesitation in the girl’s response.

  “No, ma’am.”

  “Did he have any enemies?”

  “I don’t think so. Like I said, everybody liked him. He was nice.”

  Again, past tense. And not once did the girl ask why they were asking about her coach.

  Mal asked a few more questions, scribbling in her notebook while Daryl paced the kitchen.

  He cut in, “So, how exactly did he die? You’re asking us all these questions, but we’d like some answers. I wanna know if I need to be worried about leaving my family home while I’m at work.”

  Mal gave him a pleasant smile. “Could you excuse us for a moment?”

  “Yes,” the girl said.

  Mal got Mike’s attention, leading him toward the living room. She could feel Daryl’s eyes as she whispered, “Could you get me some alone time with her? Maybe keep the dad busy for a few minutes?”

  Mike nodded.

  They returned to the kitchen and sat. Daryl eyed them.

  “Sorry, I just had to ask him how much we could say in front of your daughter,” Mal said. “Mike will give you more details if the two of you would like to go outside.”

  “Alright,” Daryl said, obviously annoyed, but curious.

  Once alone, Mal met Katie’s eyes.

  “Why didn’t you ask what happened to the coach?”

  “What do you mean?” Katie crossed her arms, avoiding eye contact. A shit liar.

  “We never said what happened to your coach, but you were talking about him in the past tense like you already knew that he’s dead.”

  “I saw the cop cars and the news vans. I guess I assumed.”

  Mal shook her head. “Whatever you’re not saying, you can tell me. You won’t get in trouble.”

  Katie shook her head, lips trembling. “I don’t know anything.”

  Mal leaned forward, trying to decide between the threat of punishment or understanding. Compassion was probably the key.

  “Did he touch you?”

  Katie’s eyes began to well up. “I told you, I don’t know anything.”

  “Bullshit.”

  The girl’s eyes widened.

  “I wasn’t lying when I said that you wouldn’t be in trouble. But if we find out that you are withholding information, we can charge you with obstruction of justice. Maybe more. I don’t want to do that, Katie.”

  She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to stem the flow of welling tears. But it only made things worse.

  Katie finally opened her terrified eyes. “You don’t know my father. How mad he will be.”

  “We can help you,” Mal said.

  “No,” she shook her head. “Nobody can.”

  Mal heard the front door open.

  Shit!

  She reached into her pocket, palmed a card and handed it to Katie. “If you change your mind, call or text me,” she whispered. “Anytime, day or night.”

  Behind her, Daryl asked, “What the hell’s going on here? What did you say to my daughter?”

  “Nothing. She was just upset about the coach.”

  Katie nodded, “All of a sudden, it just hit me. He’s gone.”

  Daryl stared at Katie, then at Mal. “Are you all done here? Did you get everything you needed?”

  “Yes, thank you for your help,” Mal said, offering her hand to Katie.

  The girl’s handshake was tentative and weak, her flesh cold.

  Mal offered her hand to Daryl. He firmly shook it, his eyes boring into hers: I’m on to you, bitch.

  Mal and Mike left.

  And as they did, Mal was certain that their best lead might never pick up the phone.

  * * * *

  CHAPTER 4 - JASPER PARISH

  Jasper Parish sat in the shadows of a battered van, nearly invisible in the rear of the parking lot that served as overflow for the beachside bars and clubs oozing between Sixth and Eighth along A1A in Coral Cove. His van faced an old wooden fence, its paint chipped and weathered from years of salty air.

  He watched the parking lot entrance in his side view mirror, awaiting his victim’s arrival.

  Unlike St. Augustine and Jacksonville, parking was still free in the Cove, without the ten to twenty dollar hustle for the privilege of getting a temporary space within a block of wherever you wanted to eat or drink at. Parking lots were unattended, no security hanging around. Jasper could wait for Calum Kozack as long as he wanted. Eventually, he’d stumble out to his red Lamborghini, parked to the left of Jasper’s van.

  Calum was the son of Oliver Kozack, one of Creek County’s most powerful businessmen. Calum had a bulletproof vest when it came to the law. Not only had he been responsible for Jasper’s daughter, Jordyn’s death, but he’d recently skated on a rape charge because there hadn’t been enough evidence to charge him — code for the DA’s office didn’t have the guts to bring charges against Oliver Kozack’s son.

  Jasper had let the boy go once.

  He would never make that mistake again.

  He glanced at his watch: 9:40 PM.

  Calum usually started his Saturday nights at Vibes — a club owned by his friend, Mickey Cerano — before heading into Jacksonville for action.

  Jasper had considered abducting Calum in Jacksonville but didn’t know the area nearly as well. The clubs there were far busier, making an ambush more difficult. And Calum probably wouldn’t return to his beach house alone.

  This was the best place to grab him.

  Jasper just hoped that Calum would leave before the Coral Cops started their rounds. He probably had another hour or so before the first patrol car cruised by, assuming none were called out to an accident nearby.

  On the side of Jasper’s van was a magnet, one of several for various non-existent out-of-town businesses. This one read: Johnny B’s Handyman Services, with a Daytona phone number below. The van was untraceable, designed to blend in. The last thing Jasper needed was to get pulled over for another crime, especially if the police did a thorough search and found the hidden recess under the shelving unit, where Calum would live out his last moments on the way to Jasper’s kill site.

  Lights swept the parking lot.

  Jasper prepared to get out of the car in case he drew suspicion, and head to the bar on the south side of Sixth. A working stiff eager for a drink.

  The car, a black Mercedes, pulled in and parked four spots from Jasper.

  A balding muscular man in a tight black tee emerged with a bleach bottle blonde in a tight dress and tacky heels. They glanced over at him.

  Jasper pretended to be talking on his phone, waving his hand and not looking their way.

  He waited a bit, then glanced over.

  They were already gone.

  Calum entered the lot, talking loudly on his cell, calling the person on the other end, “bro”
and “dude” a dozen times in half the seconds, it seemed.

  Jasper climbed into the back of the van and slid open the right side panel door, exposing the driver’s side of Calum’s red Lambo.

  He hopped out of the van, pretending to root around for something as he listened, trying to determine Calum’s proximity. About twenty feet away, judging from his voice.

  Jasper steeled himself. He would have to be quick if he hoped to render Calum unconscious before the punk could fight back.

  Calum was six-foot-five, wide, and muscular. He could’ve easily had a football scholarship to Florida State if he’d had even the tiniest ounce of self-discipline to do anything more than work out and party. As it was, he was about three inches taller and much younger than Jasper — he’d probably be a problem if Jasper tried to take him down without any aid.

  Jasper reached into the bucket on the floor, unscrewed the bottle of chloroform, doused a rag, and waited, his back to Calum’s car. Listened as the footsteps drew closer.

  Listened as Calum said, “I know, bro. She’s such a bitch. But that’s okay. I told Stacy everything. Pre-empted that shit hard.”

  With his left hand clutching the rag, Jasper reached into his pants pocket with the right and clicked on the signal jammer.

  Calum spilled another few sentences before his voice grew agitated. “Hey, dickbag, did you hear me?”

  Silence.

  Calum stood just in front of Jasper’s van, looking at his phone, confused. He brought it back to his ear, “Hello? You there? Fucking signal!”

  Calum approached his car door.

  Jasper didn’t turn back to acknowledge the man, but he imagined Calum rolling his eyes at the black man with his dirty van having the audacity to park so close to his shiny red sports car.

  Calum’s car alarm beeped as he unlocked it.

  Jasper heard Calum squeeze past him and open his door.

  Jasper sprang into action, coming at Calum from behind, shoving the chloroform rag tightly against his mouth and nose.

  Calum struggled, banging Jasper hard into the rear of his van.

  He elbowed him hard in the ribs and stomped on Jasper’s foot.

  Despite the steel toe boots, Jasper held him tight.