Justice Lost (Darren Street Book 3)

by Scott Pratt

  “I’m not,” Corker said. “Don’t need subpoenas or warrants, at least not yet. When we get to that point, we’ll come knocking.”

  “And when might that be?” the governor said.

  “I just don’t know,” Corker said. “Cases go unsolved sometimes. Criminals are clever. There wasn’t a single piece of forensic evidence at Morris’s home outside of the bullets that got taken out of the victims’ heads,” Corker said. “The killer or killers even picked up the shell casings, unless they were using revolvers. Ballistics hasn’t told us yet exactly what kind of gun the bullets came from. My forensics team didn’t find a hair, a fiber, a footprint, or a fingerprint, not even a partial. It was like a ghost committed those crimes. As for Harrison, same thing.”

  “What about phones?” Howell said.

  “What about them?”

  “I assume you’ve gone through the call logs and contacts and all the other data on the victims’ phones.”

  “We have. We haven’t found a thing.”

  Corker was lying through his teeth, which was exactly what I’d expected him to do, but there was nothing I could do about it, at least not at the moment.

  “And I don’t suppose you ever made any progress on the marine you were looking for, Gary Brewer?” Howell said.

  “The new investigation has taken priority over Mr. Brewer,” the sheriff said.

  The governor looked around the room. “Does anyone have anything else to say?”

  There was so much I wanted to say I was practically bursting. My heart rate was up and my hands were trembling.

  “Then I guess I’ve wasted my time,” Governor Bradbury said.

  He got up and stormed out the door, followed quickly by everyone else. As soon as I got to my car, I dug my throwaway cell phone out of my briefcase and called Claire.

  “Can you get ahold of your grandfather on short notice?” I said.

  “Usually.”

  “Good, because I need to talk to the director of the TBI. Have him call me at this number on a secure phone before he leaves to go back to Nashville.”

  I thanked Claire, hung up the phone, and drove toward my new office, hoping he would call.

  CHAPTER 35

  “What can I do for you, sir?” Hanes Howell’s voice was cold and demanding over the phone.

  I was back in my office, going through a pile of reassignments Tom Masoner had recommended. He was apparently already spreading the word, too, because my e-mail folder was full of messages from people who weren’t happy. I got up, walked around the desk, and closed the door.

  “Actually, there are some things I can do for you,” I said.

  “I certainly didn’t hear anything useful in the meeting we had a little while ago.”

  “I know, and I’m sorry. I couldn’t say much, but I need to talk to you. Alone. Someplace where nobody will see us together. And I mean nobody, including people from the TBI.”

  “Why would I want to talk to you, Mr. Street, unless you want to make a confession or two?”

  “Because I can help you blow this whole thing out of the water.”

  Howell paused for a bit. “I don’t believe you,” he said. “If you have information pertinent to Mr. Morris’s murder or any other murders, why don’t you just call in my agents in Knoxville and get to work?”

  “Because I have reason to believe your agents, or at least one of them, may have been compromised.”

  “Compromised how? Do you know what? You’re really something. Your name has run across my desk more than once in the past as being a suspect in multiple murders. Now you have somehow managed to gain the ear of one of the most powerful men in the country and have gotten yourself elected to the district attorney’s office in Knoxville, which means there will no longer be any investigation of you in that city for any crime you may have committed. And now you get me on the phone, tell me you can ‘blow this whole thing out of the water,’ yet you insult the integrity of my agents and my organization in the process. Do you really believe I want to have anything at all to do with you, despite what some washed-up old fool like Roger Tate says?”

  “First off, I’d be careful about who I call a washed-up old fool if I want to keep my J. Edgar Hoover clone job. And secondly, if you could manage to put that tremendous ego of yours in your pocket for just ten minutes and give me a little time, I guarantee you won’t regret it. Your agency will take down one of the most corrupt organizations in Tennessee since Ray Blanton was selling pardons out of the state capital, and you’ll come out smelling like the proverbial rose.”

  “And you, Mr. Street? What will you get?”

  “Some peace of mind. Maybe some redemption. A little more sleep.”

  He paused again for several seconds.

  “All right. I’ll talk to you at a safe house. You can’t know where it is, though. I’m going to send one of my personal-security agents—the agent I trust the most—to pick you up. He’ll be in a black SUV with tinted windows. You get in the van, he’ll hand you a bag, you put it over your head until he takes it off.”

  “No cuffs,” I said. “No shackles.”

  “You won’t be a prisoner, Mr. Street, but if you want to do this in a secure fashion, then this is the best way. He can be at your apartment in twenty minutes.”

  “You know where my apartment is?”

  “I know a lot about you, Mr. Street. Dress warmly. We’ll be outside and it’ll be cold.”

  I left the office and drove straight to my apartment. I went inside, grabbed an overcoat, some gloves, and a stocking cap, and went back outside. The SUV pulled in just a couple of minutes later, the back passenger door opened, and I climbed in.

  “Put this on,” a gruff voice said as a lightweight black hood landed in my lap. “Don’t even look at me.”

  I did as the agent said, and we rolled out of the parking lot. Forty-five minutes later, the SUV stopped. From the sounds and the way the vehicle felt while I was riding, I was sure we had driven to Pigeon Forge or Sevierville or maybe even Gatlinburg. The mountains were full of chalets that people rented, and I was betting we were heading for one of them.

  “Stay put,” the agent said. “I’ll come around and lead you in.”

  The door beside me opened a few seconds later, and the agent took me by the elbow. He guided me up three steps onto a porch, through a door, and we stepped into a house that had a neutral, unused smell to it. It smelled clean, like they had someone come in and dust and vacuum on a regular basis, but there weren’t really any human smells outside of the agent’s aftershave.

  “We’re going to step through some French doors, and you can take the hood off,” the agent said. I did so, the agent closed the door behind me and disappeared, and there sat Hanes Howell III, wearing an overcoat, gloves, and a wide-brimmed hat. He was smoking a pipe and drinking a cup of coffee. He didn’t bother to offer me one.

  I was on the outdoor deck overlooking the mountains. They were beautiful, even without the colorful canopy of leaves on the trees. We were high up; I could see for miles, but I didn’t recognize a single landmark. I had no idea where I was.

  “Nice place,” I said.

  “We use it for our special snitches,” Howell said.

  “I think you live to annoy me. I hate the term snitch. Don’t use it when you’re referring to me.”

  “Because of the time you spent in prison?”

  “Exactly, and I’m serious. If you call me a snitch again, I’ll punch you in the mouth.”

  For the first time since we’d met, a smile crossed Howell’s face. “You’re a pugnacious little bastard, aren’t you?”

  “I suppose I am. I was always a little on the small side, and I’ve always had to fight to keep people from taking advantage of me.”

  “That’s called a small-man complex,” Howell said.

  “Maybe so, but call me a snitch again and you’re going to get a dose of it.”

  “How about we stop flexing our muscles at each other and get down to
business?” Howell said.

  “Fine. Where do you want to start?”

  “I don’t know. How about at the beginning?”

  “I can’t, because there are some things I can’t tell you about.”

  “Okay, I’m wasting my time again.” Howell started to get up.

  “Wait,” I said. “I might be pugnacious, but you’re impatient and melodramatic. I have informants. I can’t tell you who they are, but I’d trust some of them with my life. What my informants began telling me is that the district attorney of Knox County and the sheriff were allowing certain criminals to run their operations without fear of arrest or prosecution in return for a cut of the illegal proceeds. The operation began back when Ben Clancy was the district attorney general and Joe DuBose was the sheriff and has continued until this day.”

  “So we’re talking ten years or more,” Howell said.

  “More.”

  “And what kind of criminals are being allowed to run their operations?”

  “Cockfighters, dogfighters, bare-knuckle boxers, pimps, human traffickers, drug dealers, gamblers. Same old story. Where there’s cash, there’s corruption. In this case, they allow select people to run their operations without fear of arrest or prosecution or competition in exchange for a price. If a competitor comes in, the original criminal suddenly becomes an informant. It’s basically an extortion scheme. The difference is that the extortion scheme isn’t being run by gangsters, it’s being run by the sheriff and the district attorney.”

  “How much money are we talking about here?”

  “Millions. Check into the amount of money Stephen Morris made and compare it with the value of the assets he held at his death. If you dig deeply enough, you’ll probably find some money stashed offshore, too.”

  “And the sheriff?”

  “He’s larger-than-life and he’s dumber than a bag of hammers, but he knows better than to flaunt the money. From everything I know, he lives under the radar. God knows where his money is stashed.”

  “And what precipitated these murders, do you think?”

  “I did, by coming in and beating Morris,” I said. “I think once Morris realized he was going to lose his candy store, he threatened to go to law enforcement, and they killed him before he got the chance.”

  “Do you think the sheriff was involved in the murders?”

  “I think he drove the boat that carried the murderers away from Morris’s house.”

  “And why do you think that?”

  “Because I saw it, but there’s no way I could ever testify to it.”

  Howell pulled his pipe out of his mouth and set it on the table. “Start talking before you get yourself arrested.”

  I told him as much as I could, about how it started with Grace dying, about going to Morris, about how I made up my mind that I was going to run against Morris and told the TBI agents about it when they came to my door asking about Dr. Fraturra. I told him an old friend—but I wouldn’t mention any names—knew Senator Tate from way back, and that he agreed to give me support and bring his granddaughter in to help me. I told him about how Senator Tate had pleaded with me to find out what had happened to the marine, Capt. Gary Brewer, and I told him what I suspected had happened. I told him about the rally and how great things were going, but that Morris just wouldn’t shut up about the old, unproven allegations against me.

  “I made a bad decision,” I said. “I got it in my mind that if I could get him alone and talk to him, maybe even threaten him, that he’d shut up about all that old stuff.”

  I failed to tell him that I might very well have killed Morris myself had Roby Penn not beaten me to it. I did tell him about the surveillance I’d done and how I was sitting on the water the night two masked men murdered Morris and his wife. I told him about the boat that rolled in to pick up the men from Morris’s dock and how the driver, while he was wearing a mask, was also massive and had what appeared to be two pearl-handled pistols in holsters tied to his thighs.

  “I couldn’t identify him positively,” I said. “I couldn’t identify any of them positively, but I’ve never seen anyone else carry pistols like those.”

  “So you think the sheriff was definitely one of them.”

  “One of them was the sheriff. He didn’t pull any triggers, but he’s guilty of conspiracy to commit murder and felony murder because he drove the boat. One of the others was more than likely a man named Roby Penn. He’s Sheriff Corker’s uncle, a fringe guy who hates the government and lives off the gambling rackets. Does really well with it, from what I’ve heard. Fixes a lot of bare-knuckle fights and cleans up. Bets on the roosters and the dogs and collects a gate and the juice. Operates some gambling machines, some card games, a small casino. It isn’t a racket he’d want to lose. Roby is one of the sheriff’s biggest producers, plus he’s kin. The only other racket that would come close to the gambling they have set up is drugs, and I’m sure you know better than I do what kind of money drugs generate. The other rackets are smaller, but they all add up. Roby and the drugs are the big ones. They’re the ones the sheriff would not want to lose.”

  “And how does the money get from all these people to Corker?”

  “My informant tells me he just goes out and collects it. He isn’t shy about it, either. He’s like one of those small-time insurance salesmen who shows up at your house every month to collect the premium. Hell, he drives his cruiser, from what I understand.”

  “And what about Morris? How did he get his cut?”

  “Jim Harrison was his bagman. Morris apparently had enough brains not to do business with the sheriff directly. He had Harrison collect the money. Harrison was just another loose end they tied up.”

  “And the girl? The Saban girl?”

  “Morris was supplying her with drugs, but that isn’t why they killed her. I think they killed her because they were afraid of what Morris may have told her.”

  “Yeah, pillow talk has gotten more than one person killed,” Howell said. “And you didn’t want to go to the Knoxville TBI because you figured since it’s been going on for so long, somebody there must be involved?”

  “I know the TBI has good informants. Hard for me to believe your guys didn’t know anything about any of this, especially with all the time that has gone by.”

  “It’s funny, you know,” Howell said, suddenly taking on a semi-philosophical air. “These criminals have it made. I mean, you take these guys, for example. Probably doing a couple of million a year, maybe more, just off the gambling. Then you add the drugs and sex, and the numbers just go out the roof. But it’s never enough for them, is it? They always need more. Always have to get greedy. And when they get greedy, somebody inevitably gets killed, and when somebody gets killed, they bring attention to themselves, and eventually their machine breaks down and everybody winds up either dead or in jail.”

  “So what do we do about it?” I said. “I’ve told you pretty much everything I know.”

  “I guess we’ll have to bring folks in from all over the state and start from the beginning. We’ll have to infiltrate the groups, identify the major players, start getting things on tape and on video. It’s going to be a big case.”

  “And it’s going to take a long time.”

  “No way around it,” Howell said.

  “That’s what I figured.”

  “Is that a problem?”

  “No, not a problem. I was just hoping to get some relief or some closure or whatever you want to call it for the Brewer family. I’d like to know what became of him.”

  “We’ll find out eventually.”

  “Yeah, I suppose we will. So what do you want me to do? Do I just go about my business and leave them alone?”

  “That would look too suspicious. Talk to the sheriff. Tell him as long as there isn’t any more violence, you’ll call a truce and let things stay as they are. But you don’t take a dime. We’re clear on that, right?”

  “I don’t want any of their money.”

  “
And you might tell the sheriff he could throw you a bone by producing Gary Brewer’s body, if there’s a body left to produce. At least that’ll look like some progress is being made. In the meantime, I’ll mobilize my agents. We’ll bring people in from Memphis, Nashville, Chattanooga, all over the state. You won’t even know they’re here, and neither will the agents in the Knoxville office. And rest assured, Mr. Street, I’ll get to the bottom of what’s going on in the Knoxville TBI office. I won’t stand for corruption of any kind, even if it’s just turning a blind eye.”

  “So you’ll coordinate this entire thing from Nashville?”

  “I will. It’ll be top secret. Very, very few people will know about it, and those will only be people I can trust.”

  “Good,” I said, and I stood up. “Now, if you don’t mind, I think I’ll ask your man to take me back down the mountain. I’m freezing.”

  Howell stepped toward me and reached out his hand. “You’ve done the right thing here today. Thank you for trusting us.”

  “Any chance I can ride back without the hood?” I said.

  He shook his head. “Sorry. We have to keep you in the dark about some things.”

  CHAPTER 36

  Claire called me at work around six to see whether I’d be home at seven. I told her I should be there by then, and an hour later, she showed up at my place holding two bottles of wine and a bag of takeout from the best Chinese place in Knoxville.

  “This is a pleasant surprise,” I said, reaching out to help her. She was dressed casually, but she looked as beautiful as ever.

  “I’m afraid it’s going to be bittersweet,” she said. “I’m here to say goodbye.”

  I invited her in and we opened the wine. The food didn’t seem appealing at the time. We sat down on the couch as I filled a couple of glasses.

  “I’m surprised,” I said. “I knew you’d head back eventually, but now that the time has come, I don’t quite know how to feel. Do you really need to go back to the swamp? The job offer still stands.”