“You’re a moron,” Bo said. “I’m the captain of the fire department and in charge of equipment for Station One. My fingerprints are probably on every flare in the department.”
“That’s true,” Ken said. “But our matching your print to the only one we found on the flare is just one of the reasons you’re sitting here with me. The second reason is the knife found in your couch. You remember, the one you allegedly sat on and stabbed a hole in your ass with?”
“Allegedly? You want to see my ass and see how alleged the cut is looking? Ask Kevin and Ken. They showed up at my house. They saw the damn knife taped to a seat cushion. And they read the note that the asshole knife guy left for me.”
“Deputies Kevin Long and Ken Majors are actually the ones who broke this case wide open. And since you already mentioned the note you found,” Ken emphasized “found” by using his fingers to demonstrate air-quotes, “that’s reason number three that you’re enjoying my company. I have a few more reasons but I would think you’d rather find out more about reasons two and three first. Am I correct?”
Bo’s mind raced back to the previous night. He couldn’t remember much about what happened, who he may have been with and who, if anyone, got selfish with his supply of cocaine. Despite his inability to recall the night’s events, he knew he would never commit arson, especially arson that killed an old friend of his. “Go ahead and tell me,” he said. “Tell me the reasons I’m here.”
“Glad you’re cooperating. I hope that after I give you what we have on you, you will continue to cooperate.”
“I didn’t burn the house down and I sure as shit didn’t kill Mack,” Bo snapped.
“The knife had one set of fingerprints, those being yours. We know they’re yours since we have your prints on file. You remember your pistol permit application, don’t you?”
“Yeah, and I know my prints were taken for the permit.” Bo paused a beat. “Man, you really are stupid. My prints are on the knife because I pulled it out of my ass. Probably touched the damn thing when I found it.”
“You didn’t pull the knife out of your ass, you sat on the knife, probably jumped in shock and pain and, according to the deputies who you called to investigate, the knife was still duct taped to the seat cushion. Plus, your prints were not only on the blade, but the handle as well.”
“I never saw that knife before,” Bo said, a bit confused and worried about the upcoming reasons McCallion was about to reveal.
“Not only did you see that knife before,” McCallion continued, “but you purchased it from Bass Pro Shops at nine forty-seven last evening. You see, the note that was tucked between the knife and the seat cushion, it was written on the back of a receipt. Your receipt, with a copy of your signature on it.”
“Bullshit,” Bo said. “I didn’t go to Bass Pro yesterday or any other day this month. Hell, I probably haven’t been in there in three or four months.”
“Yet the security footage we pulled from the store’s security system shows you clear as day, standing in line, then paying with a credit card at check out. You were there, Mr. Randall, and you purchased that knife. Oh, and by the way, you also purchased three five-gallon gas cans and a roll of duct tape. Duct tape, believe it or not, is a great surface for us to life prints from. And, before you ask, yes, only your prints were found on the tape.”
“This is all bullshit. I didn’t do anything and I never went into Bass Pro!”
“Can you prove it? Because, the video evidence is going to be really hard to deny.”
Bo paused, breathed heavily, and strained his mind. The harder he thought, the fewer details he could recall. It was as if everything he did yesterday had glazed over in his mind, leaving only ideas and guesses about his activities. “I know I was at Route 69 around dinner time, and there’re about six guys who were with me.”
“You arrived at Route 69 around five thirty, according to some eye witnesses, and left the place a little after eight pm. You’re are one hundred percent correct about that. Your issues begin after you left Route 69, showed up on video surveillance at Bass Pro at nine forty-seven, and weren’t seen by anyone again until two deputies showed up at your door this morning. See Bo, the fire that killed Brian Mack and his mother started around eleven last night, giving you plenty of time to gather up your fire-starting gear, make the short drive to his house and start the fire. So unless you have a credible alibi for your whereabouts between the time you left Route 69 and the time the deputies arrived at your house, I’d say you are in quite a pickle, Mr. Randall. Quite a pickle.”
“There’s no freaking way I set that fire.”
“I should remind you of your right to have a lawyer present,” McCallion said.
“I want to call my mother.”
“Your mom a lawyer?” McCallion asked as he stood and walked towards the interview room door. “I figured you’d want to call your father.”
“Nope,” Bo said. “My mother’s way meaner than any lawyer.”
CHAPTER FIVE
Derek sat at the conference room table, his head spinning with his thoughts. He glanced at his watch for the fifth time since the team meeting had begun.
“I know you don’t have anywhere to be or anything to do since I set your schedule,” his assistant and office manager Victoria Crown, better known as Crown, said to Derek. “So, either stop looking at your damn watch and give us your full and undivided attention or I’ll just assume you aren’t interested in whatever decisions we make about your agency.”
Since opening his private investigative agency four years ago, Derek had done well keeping a control on things. He wanted his agency to be small and nimble and wanted to be in the financial position that would allow him to pick and choose his cases. When he first quit his job as an officer with the Columbus, Ohio Police Department and opened his own “Freelance Detective Agency,” as he called it, he took on any person with a case and a checkbook as a client, usually working no more than two to three cases per month. As his notoriety increased—due in large part to two high profile cases he had solved—his case load, and his ability to flex his desire of selectiveness, increased. When, at the suggestion of friends and other private eyes, Derek decided to hire an assistant and to expand his agency, he slowly felt his control over the agency’s direction slipping away.
Crown was his first hire. She served as his assistant and case manager. Her crass and no-bullshit mannerisms were, at first, challenging for Derek to accept, but her competence and uncompromising dedication to making his agency one of the most respected in the county convinced him to deal with her personality flaws. And each month when Crown detailed the agency’s financial reports and balance sheet, Derek was glad she was part of his team.
In the nine months Crown was working for him, Derek’s one-man private investigation agency had grown to include a total of five employees. Derek was the managing partner and lead investigator, Nikkie Armani, (whom Crown had hired without Derek’s knowledge after recruiting her away from a high profile detective agency based in Los Angeles) held an investigator position, Brian Jacobson served as an associate investigator and Alex Manner was the agency’s “field agent,” who lived outside of New York City and worked on a per diem basis. Though Alex seldom made the trip from NYC to the agency’s home office outside of Columbus, he was paid his hourly rate to join in on all the team’s weekly meetings by conference call.
“Sorry,” Derek said to the room. “Maybe I misunderstood the context of this meeting. See, I thought I had to rent this conference room out, which I’ve done every Monday for the last who-the-hell-knows-how-many-weeks, in order for us to discuss working cases and new cases. But so far today, all I’ve heard is banter about the weekend, how much of a dick some of our clients can be and a few mentions of a fourth of July party planning committee.”
“It’s called ‘team building,’ ” Crown said. “Whether you rent this conference room for thirty minutes or two hours, the cost is the same so don’t complain about wasting
time. We’ll get to the important stuff.”
“How about we get to the important stuff, now?” Derek said.
“Fortunately, and no thanks to you I might add, we do have several new cases to discuss. And,” Crown said, her eyes boring holes into Derek’s head, “we need updates on working cases. According to my records, you, Mr. Cole, are the only investigator who hasn’t show the respect that Nikkie and Brian have shown by providing case updates to the team. So, why don’t we start with your cases, shall we? You know, the ones you worked on last month?”
“Crown,” Derek said as a reluctant and unavoidable smile swept across his face, “I really wonder who owns this agency: Me or you.”
“Well,” Crown said, a mirrored smile playing on the corners of her lips, “it’s your name I forge on the checks, but we both know who really runs this place.”
Once Derek filled in the team on the two cases he had been working, stating that one of the cases was closed (with a positive-client outcome) and the other was an ongoing service providing employee background checks for a large law firm in Cincinnati, owned by a personal friend of Derek’s, Crown moved the meeting forward with a discussion of the newest cases the team had to consider.
“We have four potential clients who wish to hire us. I’ve met with all four and have made the decision to take all four cases.”
“So much for this being a team, huh Crown?” Derek said.
“Don’t be an asshole,” she shot back. “If it were up to you, we’d only take cases that sparked your interest and would decline cases that actually bring revenue in to the agency. The team part comes when you all decide who’s going to take which case. It’s also nice when we actually have paying clients so when I forge your signature on checks, they actually clear the bank.”
“Why don’t we get to the cases and we’ll worry about the ‘team building’ later?” Nikkie said. Nikkie Armani, who had turned twenty-nine on Christmas day six months ago, was as competent as anyone would want or expect a private investigator to be. Her African and Middle Eastern upbringing had taught her the value of hard, honest work, and the prejudice she experienced growing up as a black Muslim living in a time in America when Muslims where feared, disliked, mistrusted or considered better left alone, had taught her the value of standing up for herself. Nikkie was not one to ever play the role of victim and she made damn sure that none of her clients or coworkers ever allowed themselves to fall into the alluring trap of victimhood. “Let’s hear the cases, Crown.”
Crown spent the next thirty minutes giving detailed information about the cases and clients “Cole and Associates” recently added to their case load. The first was a hedge fund manager whose partner absconded with over two million euros. “The client is based in London and has offices in Cleveland; Novi, Michigan; and Salt Lake City. He provided as many clues as he could about the thieving partner as well as the case file from the last PI firm he hired.” She dropped a bright yellow colored folder onto the conference room table. “The last firm he hired sucked ass. Couldn’t get out of their own way, based on what little info they uncovered. Figured chasing someone around the world would be a good case for Brian.” She paused, placed her right hand on her expanding hips, and said, “That is, if the team agrees with my assessment?”
The sarcastic tone Crown used was not lost on the team.
“Makes sense to me,” Derek said. “Fees and expenses?”
“Fifteen percent of recovered funds and twenty-thousand dollars in total expenses. If Brian blows through twenty-K and finds shit, we’re off the case.”
“Brian?” Derek said to Brian Jacobson. “You cool with the case?”
Brian Jacobson had only been an employee of Cole and Associates for a little over four months. Fresh out of a ten-year police career with the Boston Police Department, he was aggressive in his investigative approach and tireless in his work ethic. Being single and without kids made him the perfect investigator for cases that required more time in a hotel than in the home office of Cole and Associates.
“Sounds good to me,” Brian answered. “I’ve just been sitting around for at least two days getting bored. I’m itching to hit the road again.” Crown slid the yellow folder towards Brian who immediately grabbed the folder, leaned back in his leather chair and began perusing the contained notes.
Crown covered the final three cases, all of which were local clients, each expected to take no longer than two or three days to close out. “Assuming that Brian doesn’t shit the bed with his case, total expected revenue for the month will be three hundred and sixty-one thousand dollars with the current exchange rates. That’s more that you ever brought in for an entire year, Mr. Managing Partner,” she said through a sly smile to Derek.
“And if all goes well, I’m hoping that you actually allow me to share in the bounty,” Derek said.
“I’ll figure something out. You know, just to keep you from annoying me more than you already do.”
Alex Manner’s voice boomed through the conference call speaker phone situated in the middle of the conference room table, saying, “No new cases for me?”
“Not at this point, no,” Crown said. “Are you keeping busy with your other freelance jobs?” she said bitterly. Alex Manner came to Cole and Associates with a pristine record, one that both impressed Derek and also, based on the per diem agreement Alex was in favor of, convinced him to hire Alex as a field agent. Crown was suspicious of Alex, due in large part because of the person who had referred Alex to Cole and Associates. It was her ex-husband, a powerful attorney in the Northeast that Alex listed atop his resume. And it was a letter from Crown’s ex, sent directly to Derek—a letter Crown never knew about—that served as the final push in Derek’s decision to hire Alex Manner.
“Busy enough,” Alex said. “But I always find time for new opportunities.”
“I bet you do,” Crown replied. “I bet you do.”
Derek stood, slid his hands down the front of his slacks to hand-iron out the wrinkles caused by sitting for well over an hour. “If that’s all, let’s get to work.”
“Derek,” Crown said, her voice softer and more sullen that her normal voice, “there is one more case we need to talk about. One that I didn’t accept. One that, believe it or not, I need you to make a decision on.”
“I’m flattered,” Derek said.
It was the tone of Crown’s voice and the blank look in her eyes that caught Derek off guard. In the months since he hired her, Derek had never seen Crown look lost and never expected her to not have the confidence to make up her, and his, mind on any matter. “You got me a little nervous, Crown. What’s the case?”
“I honestly don’t know where to begin.”
“You said you spoke with the client, correct?” Nikkie asked.
“I did.” Crown replied.
“And can you give us a little hint about their needs?” Derek said.
“He’s my son.”
CHAPTER SIX
“Your what? Did you say ‘your son?’ ” Derek asked. “Crown, I know you’re not big on talking about your personal life, but I’d figure you’d at least have said something about having a son at some point. I mean, jeez.”
Nikkie said, “Crown, tell us why your son needs our help and what he needs us to do.”
Over the next twenty minutes or so, Crown gave the team all the details she knew about her son’s legal troubles. She told them that her son, Bo Randall, had secured the legal services of his father, Crown’s first husband.
“He’s an absolute asshole,” Crown said of her ex, “but he’s a damn good lawyer. He can talk the pants off just about anyone. Trust me, I should know.”
“Thanks for the visual, Crown,” Derek said. “Listen, I’ll do whatever I can to help your son out, but it sounds to me like he needs a good lawyer and, based on what you’ve said, he already has that covered. Not sure what we could do for him.”
Crown said, “Listen, I know my son. Sure, I haven’t spoken to him much in the pas
t ten years, but I know he isn’t capable of arson and I’m even more sure he could never burn a house down with people inside. Especially people he knows and considers friends. He’s in trouble based on what my ex told me. My ex will do everything he can but without some good old fashioned private investigator work, you know, gumshoe type of shit, my boy’s in trouble.”
“What’s your ex-husbands name?” Alex Manner asked.
“Louis Randall. He’s managing partner at Randall, Levine, Mahoney, Randall and Patterson Law Firm outside of Albany, New York.”
“Who’s the other Randall?” Derek asked. “He have another son or daughter who’s a lawyer?”
“He’s the only Randall at the firm. Son of a bitch demanded his name be listed twice, just to remind the other partners that he’s the reason the firm is in business.”
“You and he get along?” Alex asked, his voice sounding thin and stretched.
“As long as he keeps paying me, we do. I caught him screwing some bimbo a few years after we got married. That bimbo turned out to a Congressman’s wife. Call it hush money, alimony or whatever the hell you want to call it, he pays me a salary to keep my trap shut. Which isn’t easy for me to do. I should be getting additional hazard pay.”
“What I’m asking,” Alex continued, “is will there by any reason he won’t cooperate with us knowing you’re part of this firm?”
“I’ll cut his balls off if he so much as puts up a detour sign in our way.”
The Devil's Snare: a Mystery Suspense Thriller (Derek Cole Suspense Thrillers Book 4) Page 3
