by Sharon Sala
“Frank Lawson.”
Randall leaned back in his chair and crossed his hands over his chest.
“Yes, Big Frank himself. If someone had told me two days ago that this would be happening, I would have called them a liar. Now…” He shrugged.
“It’s important,” Luke said.
Randall’s good old boy attitude quickly vanished.
“Everything regarding the law in my city is important to me, too, son. But I understand you have a personal interest in this?”
Luke nodded. “You’re familiar with the Cochrane case in St. Louis?”
Randall nodded. “Everyone is, if they watch any television. Earl Walters is a good friend. He said you could be trusted. I am assuming you’re not planning to let him down?”
“No, sir. But our best interests are aimed at Jade Cochrane’s welfare. Someone put a hit out on her childhood friend, Raphael, and we think on her, too. She and I had a near miss with some tampered brakes. But Raphael was brutally murdered, as were his private nurse and an elderly woman who lived in the house across the street from Sam Cochrane. The killer was a man named Johnny Newton. I trust you’ve already been told all this?”
“Yes, but please continue. You’re putting it into a much clearer perspective for me.”
“When Newton was taken down, we found a piece of paper in his clothes with Frank Lawson’s name and private cell phone number on it. We took Newton’s own phone and made the call so that his name would show up on caller ID. Frank Lawson basically spilled his guts before he realized he wasn’t talking to Newton. Then he tried to lie his way out of it. Obviously our men didn’t buy it, and then your men stopped him from flight. So what I need to know is if he’s the end, or if there’s someone farther up who’s calling the shots.”
“And you think you can get answers from him that we can’t?”
Luke leaned forward.
“Oh yes.”
Randall frowned. “Why you?”
“Because I’m in love with Jade Cochrane. And I want to know if he’s the son-of-a-bitch who put a scar on her that nearly killed her. I want to know if he was one of the men who paid money to be with her when she was a child.”
Randall was shocked and made no attempt to hide it.
“Are you saying that Frank Lawson is a child molester?”
Luke took the photocopy of the picture of the man Jade had called Uncle Frank from his jacket and laid it on Randall’s desk.
“Is this man Frank Lawson?”
Randall picked up the picture. Despite the years between, it was definitely recognizable.
“Good drawing.”
“Jade Cochrane is a professional artist.”
“She drew this?”
“And a whole lot more.”
Randall whistled softly through his teeth as he kept looking at the drawing. “Yes, I’d say that’s Lawson. A much younger version, but Lawson just the same.”
Luke felt a surge of justification as he put the picture back in his pocket, then took out the other one he’d brought.
“This is the drawing she did of the bastard who called himself Solomon. He was the supposed leader and pimped the kids in the cult to pedophiles. She was six when it started and twelve when she ran. Thanks to your ID, we can pretty much assume that Lawson was one of the customers.”
During his career in law enforcement, Randall was a man who’d often been exposed to the darker side of society, but this story turned even his stomach.
“Christ! And we almost elected him governor.”
“So do I get to talk to him or not?”
“I’d like a couple of my detectives to sit in.”
“I don’t care if you televise it to the whole city,” Luke said.
Randall nodded. “Okay, let’s get this show rolling.” He picked up the phone and made a call. “Captain, this is Chief Randall. I’m sending a man named Luke Kelly over to your office. I would take it as a personal favor if you would have a couple of your detectives escort him to an interview room and provide him with Frank Lawson’s presence. Oh, yes. It might be a good idea if the detectives stayed with him. He seems like a nice enough man, but he’s real pissed right now, not that I blame him. However, we wouldn’t want to have to put a good man in jail…. Yes. Thank you.”
Luke breathed a quiet sigh of relief. It was going to happen.
“International flight passengers traveling to New York City with connecting flights to Lisbon or Antigua, please begin boarding at Gate….”
Otis cursed beneath his breath and then shifted his carry-on to the other side of his seat. He’d been waiting for the better part of two hours to board his flight to Geneva at LAX, but it kept showing up on the departure board as a delay. He’d questioned the gate attendants so many times that now they glared at him every time he moved. The only good thing about the departure of this latest flight was that the woman and her three screaming kids who had been sitting beside him would be leaving, too. No wonder her husband was getting on that plane without her. If she was his wife, he would leave her and those brats behind—permanently. Then he amended the thought. If she’d been his wife, he would have made damned sure she’d never gotten with child. He didn’t like kids. Never had. Except as a commodity, but even that had run its course.
Which reminded him that it was because of kids that he was, once again, on the run. Starting over in life had been easy, even fun, when he was younger. But he was getting to the age where he liked his creature comforts more than excitement. Hell, he’d screwed more women in his lifetime than a thousand men put together, then made a fortune selling films of them screwing others. It had been a damned good run, but thanks to Jade Cochrane’s tenacity, that was now over, too.
Slowly the area began to clear, and for a time the only things to be heard were the distant rumble of voices and the occasional squawk of the P.A. system announcing another arrival or departure. In boredom, he glanced up at the television mounted on the wall above him and then grunted as if he’d been punched.
It was a close-up of Frank Lawson’s face. Only it wasn’t one of his prerecorded political spots. According to the news anchor, the film they were showing had been recorded earlier this morning. It was of Lawson being arrested, handcuffed and taken to jail. Rumors abounded as to why it was happening, but the one that seemed to have the most credence had him connected to a hit man and three murders in Missouri.
Otis groaned. This sucked. If they’d already tied Lawson to that, then it stood to reason that they would find out why Lawson wanted them dead. And if they found that out, then it also stood to reason that they would want to know the name of the man who’d provided Lawson with his…entertainment years ago. And if Lawson knew or could find out where “Solomon” had gone…Otis Jacks’ days were numbered—unless, of course, his flight finally took off.
Then he took a slow, calming breath. They could look for both Solomon and Otis Jacks until the end of time but wouldn’t be able to find them. Solomon had vanished years ago, and Otis Jacks, too, had dropped off the face of the earth as abruptly as he had arrived. Otis wasn’t Otis anymore. He was Myron Handelman. He owned property in Switzerland in that name. He had money in a Swiss bank under that name, and he had purchased his ticket under that name. He had a passport, a driver’s license and credit cards to prove it. The only thing that bothered him was that he hadn’t had time to get the new face. That would have to wait until he got to Geneva.
Frank Lawson had lost all his bluster. For a man who had spent the past few months making speech after speech, he was unusually silent. When he’d been told that someone from St. Louis was coming to talk to him, he’d insisted that his lawyer be present. Now, while he was waiting for everyone to arrive, he kept thinking back over the last week, trying to figure out what he could have done differently, wondering if it would have made any difference if he’d simply gone to St. Louis and done the job himself. He knew he was capable of murder. He just hadn’t been certain he could get close enough to Jade
or Raphael, so he’d hired Newton, which had proved to be a fiasco. How could he have known that Newton was such a screw-up? Hired killers were supposed to be cold and calculating—and careful. Newton had proved to be the exception to the rule. And that had brought both of them down.
And Frank Lawson was down—as down as he’d ever been in his life—but he wasn’t out completely. At least, not yet. He would wait to see what this St. Louis cop had to offer, then make his decision as to the wisest course of action.
“Hey, Governor, you’ve got a visitor. Get up and step away from the door.”
Frank ignored the snide reference to his defunct political aspirations and pretended it was an everyday occurrence to be wearing prison orange as he received guests. Ignoring the handcuffs the guard snapped around his wrists, he let himself be led to the visiting area.
He was swaggering as he walked into the room. He recognized two of Nashville’s homicide detectives and nodded cordially. Then his gaze slid to the tall, dark-haired man in the corner of the room. He was standing with his feet apart and his arms folded across his chest, and he was staring at Frank with what could only be described as complete antipathy.
Frank stared rudely. The man didn’t so much as blink. But in the ensuing seconds, Frank would have sworn that the air in the room suddenly became too dense to breathe. He wanted to look away but found himself locked into the stranger’s stare.
“Mr. Lawson, please sit down.”
Frank blinked, then realized one of the detectives was speaking. He sat.
“Where’s Gorman? Where’s my lawyer?” he asked.
“I’m right here,” Paul Gorman said as he was ushered into the room. “Sorry I’m late. Got caught in traffic.”
Bolstered by his lawyer’s presence, Frank settled back in the chair.
“So what’s up?” he asked.
One of the detectives, a man named Art Brewster, noticed they were now a chair short and motioned to the guard who’d brought Lawson in.
“Would you tell someone outside to get Mr. Kelly a chair?”
“I’ll stand,” Luke said.
Frank frowned. It was an intimidation tactic. Determined to control the situation, he spoke up first.
“Mr. Kelly, is it? I don’t believe we’ve met.”
“Jade Cochrane sends her regards.”
The blood drained out of Lawson’s face so fast he felt light-headed. He knew he should respond, but he couldn’t find the words.
“What’s wrong?” Luke asked. “Surely you haven’t forgotten her? Pretty little girl. Black hair. Blue eyes. Begging for you to let her go. But you couldn’t, could you? You like them fragile and helpless. The flat chest and tiny hands and feet turn you on, don’t they.”
Lawson swayed, as if Luke’s words were actual physical blows, then looked wildly about the room, only to be met with horrified stares. He’d been riding out the accusations of hiring a hit man with aplomb, but having the world know his dirty little secret was like having his legs cut out from under him.
“Shut up,” he mumbled. “Shut up. You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Luke moved then. Only one step, but it was enough to make Frank panic.
“Keep him away from me,” Frank said.
“I told Jade that if I ever found the man who cut her, I would kill him.”
Both detectives jumped, their hands automatically going to their guns.
“But then I decided there was a better punishment for him than a quick death.”
The detectives relaxed. Frank did not.
“Gorman…do something! You can’t let him talk to me like that.”
Gorman was already waffling between his conscience and the money Lawson was paying him. He’d represented plenty of people accused of murder, some who had actually done the deed. But Paul Gorman had three little girls, ages twelve, seven and six, and Luke Kelly’s accusations had literally turned his stomach. He couldn’t find the words to answer.
“Lawson!” Luke barked.
Frank’s frantic gaze slid back to Luke Kelly.
“Leave me alone,” Frank whined. “You’re no cop. I don’t have to talk to you if I don’t want to.”
“Me leave you alone?” He grinned. “You need to practice that phrase, because where you’re headed, you’re going to use it more than you can imagine.”
“What are you talking about?” Frank asked.
“Do you know who inmates hate worse than the people who put them behind bars? Perverts. Child molesters. Pedophiles. That’s who. I don’t have to live with your blood on my hands, because once you’re inside, someone is bound to do the job for me, and with a whole lot more originality.”
Suddenly Frank’s lunch was at the back of his throat, threatening to come up. Someone was whimpering. It took him a few moments to realize the sounds were coming out of him. If ever there was a time to play his hole card, this was it.
“I want to make a deal,” he mumbled, the handcuffs banging against the top of the table as he reached toward Detective Brewster.
“You don’t have anything I want,” Luke said.
“Yes, yes, I do,” Frank said. “I know Solomon. I know where he is.”
Luke’s expression sharpened. “Like hell.”
“It’s true! I swear!” Frank cried. Then he grabbed Paul Gorman’s arm. “Tell them! Tell them we’ll deal. I’ll give them Solomon if they’ll keep that part of my business out of the papers.”
Luke had his hands on Lawson before the detectives even knew he’d moved.
“You’ll tell me where he is, or you won’t live to go to trial,” Luke whispered.
“Not until we deal. Not until we deal!”
Both detectives grabbed Luke and pulled him back. He immediately turned Lawson loose.
“He’s fine,” Luke snapped, as he shrugged out of their grasp.
“He threatened me,” Lawson whined.
“That wasn’t a threat. It was a promise,” Luke said.
Frank looked wild-eyed from one man to the other. None of them were saying anything. Finally he threw up his cuffed hands in self-defense.
“Look! Jade wasn’t the only one he sold. There were dozens of kids in that cult. Boys and girls. And I wasn’t the only one who knew what was going on. Solomon had plenty of customers.”
Brewster was frowning as he looked at Luke.
“Who the hell is Solomon?”
Luke sighed, then shoved his hands through his hair in mute frustration. He didn’t want to make any kind of deal with Frank Lawson, but he could see one coming.
“Back in the seventies, there was a commune…a cult…call it what you want, but they called themselves the People of Joy. They were led by a man named Solomon. Margaret Cochrane, Jade’s mother, got involved and took her daughter with her when she ran away with them. Jade was four. Two years later, Margaret died of some drug overdose, leaving her little girl in the hands of those people. Instead of getting the child back to her father, Solomon took her, as well as the other children there, and repeatedly sold them to pedophiles. Jade said the children called them uncles. When she was twelve, a man she knew only as Uncle Frank cut her, damn near killing her. After that, she and another kid, a boy named Raphael, ran away. They’d been on the move until…well, the media took the story of her being reunited with her father and plastered it all over the national news. I’m guessing that when good old Uncle Frank, who had an agenda all his own, realized that same little girl was alive and all grown up, he panicked. It wouldn’t do to have skeletons like her rattling around in his closet this close to election day, right, Frank?”
Brewster eyed Frank.
“Is this true? Did this Solomon keep the children prisoners?”
“I don’t know what he did with them. I didn’t live there,” Frank said. “But I know where he is, and I know the name he’s living under.”
Luke’s heart skipped a beat, but he wouldn’t let himself hope. “If Solomon is as tuned in to current events as you were,
there’s no guarantee he’s still there.”
“Mr. Kelly, we’re now looking at Federal kidnapping charges,” Brewster said. “I’m going to ask you to leave now. We need to question Mr. Lawson further regarding this turn of events.”
“Where is he?” Luke asked, completely ignoring Brewster’s demands.
Frank looked wildly from one cop to the other. “Do we have a deal?”
“Tell me,” Luke said. “Do it now, or I go to the papers with everything.”
Brewster was pushing Luke toward the door.
“Lawson, if I walk out of here, your days of breathing are numbered,” Luke warned.
“Los Angeles!” Frank yelled. “He owns a porn studio called Shooting Star or Rising Star or something like that. He goes by the name of Otis Jacks. And I know he’s going to leave the country.”
Luke groaned, wondering if it was already too late. “What country? Where was he going?”
Frank grabbed his lawyer’s arm again. “For God’s sake, speak up you son-of-a-bitch! What the hell am I paying you for if I’m the one who’s doing all the negotiations?”
“Good question,” Gorman said. “I cannot, in good faith, represent you anymore. I have three daughters, which biases me against giving you fair representation. And off the record, if you did what that man says you did, then I hope you rot in hell.”
Lawson gasped. He jumped up from his chair.
“You can’t do this!” he shrieked. “You’re all railroading me. I have a constitutional right to fair representation.”
Brewster’s partner grabbed Lawson by the arm and yanked him back toward the chair.
“Sit down, Mr. Lawson, before I put you down.”
“I can get a phone number.” Luke said. “I want more.”
Frank moaned. “You can’t do this to me. It’s not fair.”
It took every ounce of control Luke had not to put his hands around Lawson’s throat and squeeze the life out of him.
“You had your chance,” Luke said. “And just so you know, there’s a rumor that someone has already leaked the faces to the media.”
“What faces?” Frank asked.
Luke grinned. “Oh. Didn’t anyone tell you? Jade Cochrane grew up to be quite an artist. She has a formidable file of drawings of the men who defiled her. They’re very good. Close to photographic in quality.” Then he stuck his hand in his pocket. “Here, want to see yours?”
