Rachel hurried away up the MetLife escalator towards 45th Street believing she had the money, and in a change to the original plan, gave Shadow the slip and left the attaché case in a hotel room. She had already decided to return to Trinidad to escape his menacing control over her. She texted him the details of where he could find the case when she was on the way to the airport. His voice could be heard all over Manhattan when he discovered the case’s real contents.
Shadow thought that Rachel had double crossed him and had left with the money. Guy Randall still believed that Rachel loved him and that she had really been kidnapped and left to escape Shadow’s clutches. Shadow and Randall both decided to follow Rachel to Trinidad, for two very different reasons.
Only Shadow returned alive.
Shadow hit the call button for the elevator and ascended to the twenty-fifth floor. Most workers had already tidied their desks and were either in the elevator or halfway to the subway by the time Shadow walked past the empty lobby and reception desk. Jennifer was busy typing up some notes for the weekly marketing meeting the following morning. Her eyes were focused on her computer screen mouthing the words silently as she typed away when, from nowhere, a large gloved hand sprang into view and switched off her monitor.
She’d heard nothing.
The screen went black and she recoiled in shock and put her hand to her mouth. Shadow sat down on the side of her desk, it groaned and creaked but it somehow withstood the two hundred and fifty pound weight.
‘Jennifer. This can go one of two ways. You see I need some information. You can give it to me painlessly and effortlessly and I’ll be gone in less than a minute, or …’
‘What, what information?’ Jennifer screwed her eyes closed at the sound of Shadow’s deep terrifying voice. She didn’t want to hear the ‘other way’ as Shadow put it.
‘Sensible girl. Especially as your phone line is already dead and the security guards are checking out a small fire at the back of the building.’
That was a bluff.
‘Who are you? And how do you know my name?’ Jennifer asked.
‘That’s not important. I want the address for Rachel’s Central Park apartment.’
‘You mean Guy Randall’s apartment.’
‘Whatever.’
‘I can't possibly divulge private details such as…’
‘The second way involves pain and a lot of…’
‘All right. All right. Give me a moment. I’ll need the screen back on to get into the file.’
Shadow turned and pointed a thick, leather-clad finger and pushed the on button. The desktop re-appeared and Jennifer looked down at the keyboard, tapped a few keys and Guy Randall’s personal file opened up. She grabbed the mouse and scrolled down to click a sub file called ‘Accommodation’. She worked the mouse around and highlighted the address.
‘The address is…’ she began.
‘Print it out,’ ordered Shadow.
Jennifer started to open her mouth but decided against it and closed it again. She clicked the print button. A copy printer on the next table vibrated into life and Shadow watched the page jerk out into the tray. When it was fully out he picked up the paper, read the details silently, folded it twice and put it into an inside pocket of his coat.
Jennifer said, ‘He’s dead.’
‘Who's dead?’ asked Shadow, knowing full well who Jennifer was talking about.
‘Guy Randall, my ex-boss. He doesn’t live there anymore.’
‘I know.’
‘So why do you need his address?’
Shadow didn’t answer her question. He started to walk away and spoke without looking back at Jennifer. She was so scared she kept looking at her monitor.
‘Thanks for the information. Don’t let your curiosity get you into trouble. Let this be our secret. No police. Or I’ll be back.’ Jennifer had no doubt in her mind that he meant what he said. ‘You don’t want that.’ He added.
After a few moments Jennifer dared to steal a look over her shoulder. The office was empty.
Shadow was gone.
Chapter 7
‘Why’d you do it Stone?’ It was down to business. Ramirez fired his first shot across the bow.
Stone didn’t answer.
The matchstick was back and bobbing around nicely. Stone had Ramirez as an ex-smoker, trying hard to fight the weed. The necktie was still loose. Ramirez leaned back and put his hands behind his head taking care not to dislodge his police issue shades nestling snugly in his thick greasy hair.
‘Couldn’t have been the money, says here you’re a multi-millionaire property and construction guy.’ He was reading from the file. Stone wondered how they had compiled such information in the short time since his arrest. ‘Maybe it was a woman?’ Ramirez was deliberately poking around trying to provoke Stone. Stone was sure there was nothing about female relationships in the case file.
Stone still said nothing. He was trying to maintain his composure, staring out at the mirrored screen wondering who might be back there. Apart from the fake warrant from Trinidad, Stone knew they had nothing, no evidence, and that a certain evil woman’s influence was exerting itself somehow in precinct #113, and on Ramirez to be precise.
‘I want my phone call,’ Stone repeated.
Ramirez ignored his request completely. He leaned forward and opened up the case file. He flicked over the front page and picked up a plastic evidence bag and dropped it onto the table in front of Stone. Ramirez then pulled the zip-lock open, turned the bag upside down and the contents clattered onto the metal surface.
Stone looked down at the bag and knew what it was immediately and realized they’d trawled through his belongings looking for anything incriminating, but as he was innocent, they were wasting their time.
‘Suppose you tell us Mr. Stone why these items are in your possession?’
Spread across the table were items given to Stone by Guy Randall as he lay dying in his arms. There was Guy’s cell phone that had got soaked in the torrential rain. Next to the phone was Stone’s personal notebook; Ramirez demonstrably opened it at the page where Stone had written down Mrs. Randall’s Manhattan apartment address. Lastly there was Guy’s gold neck chain with two keys attached to it. Randall had asked Stone to deliver them to his wife and implored him to tell her that he loved her, no matter what she might hear about his business in Trinidad.
After another minute of silence Ramirez posed his question again. ‘Can you explain how these came into your possession?’
Stone decided to answer. ‘They were given to me by Mr. Randall as he was dying in my arms. As I told you before he asked me to deliver them to his wife who I’ll be seeing tomorrow.’
‘You expect us to believe that? Let’s look at the facts. You admit you were in the same place and at the same time when Randall was shot.’ Stone didn’t respond. ‘You have Guy Randall’s widow’s address who just happens to be a very wealthy woman. You also have two keys. One to a five mil apartment on Central Park and guess what, a key to a safety deposit box, where is it again? NEW YORK,’ he shouted.
Stone smiled out of bewilderment upon hearing Ramirez try to slant the possession of a few items into something that Stone would murder for. It was ridiculous, he thought. Finch, who’d been quiet throughout the interview, wondered where Ramirez was going with the line of questions, all they had so far was a fax from someone they didn’t know somewhere in the Caribbean – they weren’t even sure where Trinidad was – and they were trying to make a case for arresting Stone. He had to say something soon but he knew Ramirez would shout him down.
‘Ramirez, you’re clutching at straws, you’ve got nothing,’ said Stone, pointing to the items spread across the table.
Ramirez leaned forward with his hands across the table; he wiped off the smirk and creased his lips tightly. His eyes were screwed almost closed. He squeezed his fingers into his palms as if he was about to bang them on the table.
‘Detective Ramirez to you Stone. You seem to forget
we have the signature of a Chief of Police. We also have some very interesting items and all we need, all we need, is a fingerprint and some ballistics, which I’m sure Parker-Brown will be sending any time now, and you’re screwed. Shall I tell you what these items in your possession prove Mr. Stone? MOTIVE.’
Stone was not impressed. Finch was equally mystified with his partner’s reasoning, as far as he could see they had insufficient information to hold Stone.
The door opened and a female officer handed a piece of paper to Officer O’Reilly and whispered something into his ear, well somewhere near his upper arm, she couldn’t reach his ear. O’Reilly walked forward and handed the note to Ramirez. He read it silently and announced that the interview was suspended; he spoke into the machine and flicked off the recorder switch.
‘The interview with Bradley John Stone is suspended at 3.23pm.’ Ramirez stood up and told Finch that he had to leave to attend to an urgent suspected homicide.
‘Stone you need to do some serious thinking, for all we know Mrs. Randall is your next target, you’re not leaving here ‘til I’m satisfied you won’t commit any more murders,’ said Ramirez looking directly at Stone. The smirk was back.
‘Finch, O’Reilly, put him back in the cell overnight, we’ll see what he’s got to say in the morning.’ Ramirez left the room and the door swung closed. There was an awkward silence. O’Reilly was waiting to escort Stone to one of the holding cells in the basement.
‘Detective Finch, surely you can see what’s going on here?’ Stone was leaning forward, almost whispering, pleading with the Detective to help him.
‘It’s not my call Sir,’ said Finch apologetically.
‘Let me make one phone call, please Detective, at least proper procedures will have been followed, you’ll be protecting Ramirez, the tape will show he steadfastly refused to acknowledge my requests. One call that’s all I’m asking.’
Finch rubbed his mouth and shook his head from side to side pensively. He knew it was the right thing to do.
‘Okay, two minutes, no more, you got that?’
‘Yes, yes, I got that.’
Finch instructed Officer O’Reilly to take Stone to the next room where there was a wall-mounted telephone kept specifically for the purpose of calls to a lawyer. Finch hovered around outside and kept an eye on his watch.
O’Reilly stayed with Stone and kept an eye on him. Stone picked up the receiver and asked the operator for a line. There was a click in the earpiece and then Stone heard the dial tone. He punched in the country code and number for Mac’s cell phone and prayed that he would answer. The line rang five times before it was picked up and then he heard the first friendly voice he’d heard since leaving Trinidad.
‘Mac?’
‘Brad? Is that you? You got there safely mate?’
‘Kind of. Listen close Mac. I need you to go see the Chief. I’ve been arrested for Guy’s murder. They pounced on me as soon as I got clear of customs at JFK. They’ve got a signed fax from Parker-Brown naming me as Randall’s killer.’
‘What? You’re joking mate, you been at the sauce on the flight, had a few too many mate?’
‘Mac, I’m deadly serious, I…’
Finch stepped into the room and pressed down the hook.
‘Your times up Mr. Stone, I think you got your message across.’
Stone was just about to argue with him but thought better of it. At least Finch let him make the call. Ramirez would have left him in the cell all night and probably all the next day. He would have missed the funeral. Maybe he still would.
Finch told O’Reilly to take Stone down to a cell. Stone was in turmoil but he could do nothing further. He’d spoken to Mac. He knew there was no one better to have on his side.
‘Thanks Detective,’ said Stone as he was being led away. ‘I know you stuck your neck out for me.’
Finch said nothing in reply. He wondered how long he could let Ramirez continue with his vindictive behavior.
Mac stood and stared at the phone in his hand. He knew that Brad would never joke about being in such a dire situation so it was time to get serious. He flipped the phone closed and got ready to drive over to the station in San Fernando to see the Chief.
He needed to get to the truth.
Chapter 8
It was a baking hot afternoon in the south of Trinidad. The weather was becoming gradually drier; late December heralded the change from the wet season to the dry season. From December to May was the most pleasant time of the year with marginally cooler temperatures but also longer settled periods with clear blue skies and sultry evenings. The day that Stone called Mac from New York there was a gentle breeze that moderated the heat and humidity. Without the breeze the days could be uncomfortable. The locals carried a small toweling cloth with them to wipe their brows and faces once in a while. If there was rain it would be a short downpour, a welcome respite that would provide a cooling break for an hour until the sun regained its former strength.
Mac was standing on the eighteenth floor of the new office structure, which was relatively low in height, but it was still the highest building in the south of Trinidad. He was thinking about Stone’s phone call as he looked across the sprawling city in front of him. He turned and looked out over the bay. There were several oil tankers anchored three miles off shore waiting to be loaded up at Point Lisas, the country’s biggest refinery area.
He stood next to the safety rail and gripped it tight. He could feel the same anger rising in his body upon hearing that Stone had been falsely arrested as when they were dealing with the stalker just a few short weeks earlier. Fortunately though, through shear defiance and resolve, they managed to outsmart Rachel in her campaign to terrorize Stone, and even worse, to murder Karla. They thought the worst was over but now her evil deeds appeared to have been reborn, phoenix like, to finish off what she started, to frame Stone for a murder he did not commit.
It was late afternoon and he had very little time to come up with a plan to free Stone. He was booked on the morning flight to JFK, which had been strategically planned to arrive in time to be at Guy Randall’s funeral. So he had to act fast.
First stop was to see the Police Chief to clear up the matter of the warrant with Stone’s name on it. He decided to call ahead as he was walking up Chancery Lane to San Fernando Police Station just a few minutes away from the construction site. He dialed and Parker-Brown’s secretary picked up on the third ring. She confirmed that the Chief was in his office and that she would let him know he was on his way.
Mac arrived at the station. The station was a grey stone structure with thick walls and terracotta colored tiled roof. A solid looking building, nonetheless the east wing caught fire a year or so ago and the inside of the building was gutted. The only parts remaining after the fire were the two feet thick exterior walls. The old timber window frames had perished along with the upper floors and the roof.
Mac swung open the glass entrance doors and the cool air-conditioned air in the reception was a welcome relief from the stifling heat outside.
Gloria, the Chief’s secretary, a plump but pleasant middle-aged lady with a broad welcoming smile across her pretty face, was passing reception as Mac entered. She saw Mac and escorted him through to the Chief’s office at the back of the main duty room. The Chief saw him through the glazed door and stood up to greet him. His office was spacious and had a view of the city. Behind his desk, mounted proudly on a short pole was the Trinidad and Tobago flag. Next to that on a side table was an array of photographs. A family portrait took center stage, which Mac put to be at least ten years old, was of the Chief in full uniform next to his wife, Alice. Either side of them were their two girls, who looked the same age, twelve or thirteen at the most. Standing in front of the Chief was his son who must have been around nine years old. The others, in smaller photo frames, were all taken at various functions and dinners. The Chief was standing behind his huge wooden desk and in front of that were two large black leather upholstered carver c
hairs. Mac thanked Gloria and knocked on the Chief’s door, it was open, so he walked in.
‘Mac. Good to see you, you sounded anxious on the phone. What’s the problem?’
The Chief and Mac shook hands like old friends and despite Mac’s youthful yet toned muscular six-five frame he was glad when the Chief released his grip after their hand shake. The two men stood chin-to-chin, roughly about the same height. Mac the ex-British soldier who had seen active service in the middle east as well as elsewhere in the world, and Parker-Brown, a stout and handsome man in his forties, who had fought his way up through the ranks in the Trinidad police force. Both were disciplined service men with an unspoken mutual admiration for the other. The murder of Guy Randall at Stone’s villa and the chase to St. Lucia and its dramatic outcome had drawn him and Stone pretty close to the Chief. Mac was sure that that would help him with the purpose of his visit today.
‘It’s starting again chief, and I’m pretty sure I know who’s behind it.’
‘Why, what’s happened?’
‘Stone was arrested this morning when he arrived at JFK. The NY police had a warrant for his arrest. They had a fax from you, with Stone’s name on it, saying he was wanted in connection with Randall’s murder. There was nothing he could do. He’s in a cell tonight and tomorrow is Guy Randall’s funeral.’
‘That’s impossible, I signed the papers myself, Gloria prepared them and I checked them over. There’s obviously been some kind of mistake.’ The Chief pressed a button on his intercom and buzzed Gloria.
‘Yes Mr. Parker-Brown?’ she answered.
‘Bring me the fax that I sent to New York this morning, did you file it yet?’
‘No Mr. Parker-Brown. I put it in my in-tray after Randy gave it back to me. I put it in the machine and dialed the number and then went on my break. He said it didn’t go through straight away and that he would make sure it was sent for me.’
DEAD MAN'S JUSTICE - A Place of Evil (Stone & McLeish Thriller Series of Stories Book 2) Page 3
