by Casey Doran
“Thirty-two years old. Parents listed as Robert and Patricia Jagger. Both deceased. Looks like they were killed in a car crash by a drunk driver who crossed the median and hit their car head on.”
“How old was she when it happened?”
“Nineteen. They left her a sizable nest egg, plenty to finish college and live comfortably for a while. But after graduation she joined the Kansas City Police.”
“So she’s a crusader.”
“She certainly looks like one. I’ve read some of her performance reviews. They’re very impressive.”
I didn’t bother to ask how Gus was able to access such information. He still had friends all over the place. One phone call to right person and Gus could probably find out what color underwear Jagger was wearing.
“Her degree is in criminal psychology. She made detective at twenty-nine. Spent less than a year in the three-nine before transferring to our neck of the woods.”
“What was the reason for the transfer?”
“Not sure. The money is better there, and she has no obvious ties to this area that I can see. It’s weird for her to work her way up so fast and then move. But it happens. Maybe her lieutenant was an asshole. Maybe she got sick of the big city. Maybe a lot of things. But there is one thing that looks strange.”
“Tell me.”
“She was involved in a shooting while she was off duty. According to the reports, she walked in on a robbery in progress at a gas station and killed three suspects. The clerk was also killed, apparently in the crossfire. The department investigated, but didn’t find—”
I interrupted Gus with a violent coughing fit. I hunched over while dry heaving, holding the phone off to the side with one hand while pitching the cigarette with the other.
“You really need to learn that quitting smoking means not doing it anymore.” Gus said while I hacked. “You can barely get through one without hacking up your spleen. Give them up already.”
“That would be no fun.”
“Funny. You like things that are bad for you. Cigarettes. Women.”
“You flatter me.”
“But speaking of women, this lady has ‘up and comer and looking to make a name for herself’ written all over her. So watch your ass.”
That certainly sounded like the woman I just met.
“And by the way,” Gus said. “I hesitate to even bring this up, but it has not escaped my attention that Detective Jagger looks like she could cause a supermodel to have confidence issues. I’m positive it did not escape yours, seeing as how she is exactly your type.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means she is attractive, smart, and doesn’t take any shit. A real ball-buster. And more important, she is exactly the kind of woman you tend to gravitate toward.”
I watched people hurry up and down Main Street from one nightclub to the next. Life was already turning to normal. And now the college students had a cool story to discuss over their beers and bullshit.
“There hasn’t been anyone since Katrina, Gus. You know that.”
“Yes, I do know that. But Alyssa Jagger will try whatever means she can to get you to lower your guard. Do you understand what I am saying?”
“Yeah. I hear you.”
I ended the call and entered my building. Griffin and his team were gone, and the silence created an eerie aftermath that was heightened by the faded stains on the ceiling and walls. Twenty-one hours since the murder had taken place, but the violence that had transpired here hung in the area like a living entity. I wondered if I would ever again be able to come down here, or if I should just get used to parking on Main Street.
Upstairs, Doomsday met me at the door and hip checked me as soon as I walked in. With everything that had been going on, he hadn’t had much of a chance to get out. I followed him down the stairs and outside where he cut a path up Main Street. Downtown was all but deserted. The excitement caused by the murder was over and you could feel the sense of exhaustion from all the drama in the empty streets. Places were shut down early and windows that were normally lit up were dark and reflecting my distorted image as I walked past. Up ahead, I could hear my dog sniffing around for a familiar spot in which to mark his territory. He finally settled into one of his favorites and squatted as a cold wind swept down my back. I dug my hands in my coat and waited. Finished, he reversed course and passed me on the way back home, apparently done for the night.
It was almost eleven by the time I made it back upstairs, undressed and crashed into bed. But sleep came slowly. I found myself listening for any noises that sounded out of place, any alerts from my phone that would trigger another reenactment of Christian’s Black’s murderous works. Now that the police presence had disappeared, I wondered if the killer was planning to make a return visit.
Finally, after seeing Doomsday flop in the corner of the room for the night, and with the .45 within arm’s reach, I fell into a restless sleep filled with dreams of purring chainsaws.
Chapter Five
By seven AM I was on my third cup of coffee and staring at the marker-board that hung on wall in my office. In the center was Sean Booker. Lines stretched out like arms to secondary subjects. Myself. Eric Watts. Preston Masters. It was easy enough to connect the dots with the first two. But Booker’s connection to an ultraconservative United States congressman was a mystery. It bothered me that I could find no plausible connection.
So I decided to go violate a restraining order.
City Hall is only a four minute walk from my apartment. I hurried across the street and entered the foyer of the courthouse where I was met by a pair of security officers in grey uniforms flanking a metal detector. The guards themselves wore nine millimeter automatics on their right hips. Rent a Cops with guns, more scary than Christian Black with a case of dynamite.
I emptied the contents of my pockets into a plastic tray, loaded the tray onto a conveyor belt to pass under an x-ray machine and took a step forward when the Rent a Cop on the left stopped me.
“Where are you headed?”
“Where else? Traffic court. I got another ticket for driving with no rearview mirror.”
Between the many citations I received for driving with no mirror, speeding, and illegal parking, traffic court and I were well acquainted with each other. Most of the guards were used to seeing me there.
“Just as long as you’re not planning on stopping by Congressman Masters’ office. You know you have to stay one hundred feet away from him.”
“No problem. You can keep that whinny little hemorrhoid away from me, while you’re at it. I just want to see the judge, pay my fine and get out of here. So can I get through, or what?”
The line was backing up behind me and people were getting impatient. I could hear a man on a cellphone asking someone to email him the Brennan deposition. Which made him a lawyer. He covered his phone and addressed the guards.
“Hey, what’s the holdup? I have to be in court in five minutes. Let’s get it moving huh?”
The guards passed a look between them and then told me to get moving. I gathered my things from the tray and then walked casually towards the elevator. Preston’s office was on the fourth floor with a view overlooking the river. The first thing he had done after being elected was to relocate a judge with thirty years behind the bench. The former congressman’s office had been on the first floor to make it more accessible for his constituents. It was a broom closet now.
I arrived at Preston’s office to find his secretary standing in the corner.
“The guards at the lobby called up here and said you might be showing up.” She said. “If you did, the congressman instructed me to delay you until security gets here,” She stood with her arms folded across her chest, as far from Preston’s door as she could get and did not look the least bit inclined to follow her boss’s orders.
“I see. And how, exactly, were you supposed to accomplish that?”
“He didn’t say. But it’s been a few seconds, so
I figure my job here is done.” She waved towards the door. “Go on in. And try not to hurt him too bad.”
“Thanks.”
Preston was behind his desk. He jumped in his seat when I came in.
“Security is on the way,” he said.
“Did you really tell your secretary to delay me?”
“I did. And seeing as you how she failed to do her job, she will be fired.”
I took a step towards the desk and Preston pulled a gun from the drawer, which was a surprise. It was like seeing the pope pull a box of Trojans from his robe.
“Put it down, Preston. You’re too much of a coward to shoot anybody.”
“Screw you, Sands.”
“Maybe later.” I heard voices behind the door. Security was here. Preston slid the gun in a desk drawer and folded his hands on the desk. I was only moments away from a forceful removal from his office and he was clearly eager to see it. No doubt he saw his retribution for the Dumpster close at hand. But he was wrong.
“Why do you have a gun in your desk?” I asked.
His eyes, contempt-filled, eyes glared at me from across the room.
“Okay, if you’re not going to answer that question, how about this one: Why was your phone number in a dead drug dealer’s phone?”
Preston’s face went white. The door was flung open and three men dressed in black security uniforms came in. They were ready to toss me out into traffic, and Preston would have no doubt loved watching it. But my mention of Booker unsettled him. He quickly regained his composure and gave the men his best smile.
“I am sorry, gentlemen. There has been a misunderstanding. Mister Sands has an appointment.”
“Are you sure, Congressman?”
“Absolutely. Sorry for the misunderstanding. I do appreciate your quick response time. I will be certain to call your supervisor and express my gratitude.”
The guards gave me a look and then left, shutting the door behind them. I doubted they were going far. I took a moment to check out the office. There were pictures of Preston with his father, the former governor of our state, as well as both former Presidents Bush. None with the mayor. He was a Democrat. None with his sister, Katrina. In a far corner, I saw the confirmation of some of my worst fears. It was a campaign sign that read MASTERS FOR GOVERNOR in bold font. Elections were over a year away, but Preston was already setting the foundation.
“Say it ain’t so,” I muttered. He caught me staring.
“That’s right. And I’m going to win. Now have a seat.”
I did, placing myself in the leather chair across from his desk.
“Are you going to offer me coffee?” I asked.
“No.”
I shrugged.
“That is a really nice desk.”
“Yes, it is. It came from the governor’s mansion.” Preston loved to brag and could not help himself.
“Awesome. Are you going to bring it back with you when you move in?”
“No. I will use my father’s desk. Some of us actually have a proud family legacy. But you wouldn’t know anything about that, would you, Sands?”
It was a nice shot. An easy one, but from him I couldn’t expect too much. I glanced at a model in the corner of the room. It represented the new corporate headquarters for a major tax consulting firm that was scheduled to be built in the area.
“I see you got your project pushed through. All it took was demolishing a boys’ and girls’ club.”
“That club was a den of drugs and gang violence.”
“It was a haven from drugs and gang violence, dumbass. It was a safe place for kids in the area to play basketball without having to worry about getting caught in a crossfire from a drive-by.”
“I am not debating this with you, Sands. Tell me how you know that Sean Booker had my phone number.”
“How did you know his name? It hasn’t been released yet.”
Preston seemed amused by that. “It has been several hours. Do you really think I don’t know everything about what happened?”
I was fishing, and Preston suspected as much. He was not going to just give anything up. He may have been a weasel and a coward, but he wasn’t stupid, and he had been in politics long enough to know how to cover his ass. It was probably as natural a function for him as breathing.
“I saw it myself,” I said. “In his contact list.”
I could see his mind working.
“It would have been easy for him to get the number to this office. He could have found it on the Internet. From a phone book. He could have called 411.”
“True. Booker could have easily got the number that goes to your sweetheart out there. But this was your private number. The one you don’t release. The one only a select few have.”
Preston thought he had an opening. I saw his eyes light up.
“If that is the case, how would you have recognized it?” He was pleased with himself, even though it should have been obvious.
“Because, genius. It’s the same number that Kat has for you in her phone. I saw it every time you called her when we were together. Which was all the damn time, by the way.”
His fingers drummed the desk. He knew the police had Booker’s phone. They were probably already checking the logs. I didn’t know what they would find, but whatever it was had Preston nervous. Nervous enough to let me sit in his office and find out how much I knew. And nervous enough for him to now stand and say that the meeting was over. He picked up the phone and held his finger over the speed dial, as though to illustrate that he could have the security team back with the push of a button. I wasn’t going to give him a hard time about it. I had what I came for. Whatever was going on, Preston was in it up to his eyeballs.
The front door to my loft was no sooner shutting behind me when my phone rang.
“I have been instructed to tell you to stay away the hell away from Congressman Masters,” Detective Torrez said. “So this is me telling you. Are we clear?”
“Sure.”
“Not good enough. I’m not going back to my boss with ‘sure.’”
“Fine. I will stay away from Preston. Is there anything else?” I asked.
“Yeah. Extend the no-fly zone to any peripheral crime scenes. That includes the residences of murder victims, of which you are still a suspect. Also, it was brought to my attention that there is a press conference being held this afternoon. Something about a building in the ghetto being torn down to make way for some uppity brokerage firm. Both the congressman and his father are scheduled to be there, so I would absolutely make it a point to stay away. Is that clear?”
“Sorry, I’m still stuck on peripheral. When did cops begin using such an impressive vocabulary?”
“Pound sand, buddy.”
I opened a Newcastle, put on some Jimi Hendrix, and began the task of cleaning the mess left by the cops. While I worked, I kept thinking about a headless drug dealer, a corrupt congressman, and a killer who was using my books as homicidal inspiration. There was a connection to it all that I still was not seeing. Which meant I was going to ignore Torrez’s directive.
Reporters and camera crews crowded around a platform set in the middle of what was to be the future site of the biggest company to make the area its headquarters since Caterpillar. Many members of the media had been there all week, having made the trek earlier in the week to cover the dead drug dealer in my garage. It must have been a hell of a time for them. A wrecking ball hung in the backdrop like a raised fist, ready to demolish the boys’ and girls’ club. It was one of the oldest and most rundown buildings in the city. Faulty wiring. Leaky roof. Rodent infested. And located in an area that was rampant with drugs and gang violence.
But with an excellent river view.
Preston stood alongside the company CEO and his father, the former governor. The trio wore big smiles under a banner that read A NEW DAY FOR PEORIA! Preston and the CEO answered some softball questions from the major networks, providing soundbites like ‘major influx of jobs.’ The
n the local new station started taking their shots. I recognized Jaime Dawson from Action Channel Eight and smiled. Dawson had built a reputation for hard-hitting stories that left no prisoners. Preston ignored her raised hand as long as he could, but finally gave her a nod.
“Congressman, you claim that the construction of this building will provide many new jobs for the area. But is it not true that construction will be done by a company from Chicago?”
“J&E Tax Consultants has a contract with that company. They handle the construction of all their new sites.”
“And is it also true that over eighty percent of the staff in this building will come from personnel transferring from other locations like Omaha and Saint Louis?”
The CEO stepped up for that one.
“J&E Tax Consultants is a major corporation with offices all over the Midwest. Of course, some of our most trusted and long-serving people will work in the corporate headquarters. But we are very much looking forward to tapping into the deep well of talent that this area has to offer. It is, in fact, one of the main reasons we chose Peoria to build our corporate offices.”
“So it wasn’t the fact that you are getting several acres of riverfront property for seven cents on the dollar?”
The governor stepped in to save his progeny and dismissed the masses with a practiced air of superiority. I made my way through the throng to find Jaime Dawson talking into her cell phone. She hung up and gave me smile.
“Jericho Sands. Why am I not surprised to see you here?”
“Because you’ve been a reporter too long to be surprised by anything.”
“Uh-huh. Let the guys in the three-thousand-dollar suits handle the bullshit. They’re better at it.”
“Such as? What kind of bullshit?”
Dawson slid a finger across the screen of her tablet and pulled up a file. She looked around to make sure that we were not being overheard and then tilted the tablet so I could see the screen.
“I did some research on the crime stats for the past six months. The arrest records have a name that repeats rather extensively.”
“Let me guess. Sean Booker?”
