The Devil's Snare: a Mystery Suspense Thriller (Derek Cole Suspense Thrillers Book 4)

by T Patrick Phelps

  “I’ll take that as a ‘no.’ ”

  “Okay, Crown,” Derek said, “we’re on the case. Nikkie and I will handle the on-scene investigation. Brian and Alex will work their cases and Crown, you provide backup support as usual.” He paused, stood, then turned to Crown and said, “Where does your son live?”

  “Small town called Ravenswood, New York.”

  “Alex, find out how far you are from Ravenswood,” Derek said. “I might need your help on this one.”

  “Got it,” Alex said.

  “Good. Crown, you stay back here and keep things running. I don’t want the entire team out of the office in case more cases come knocking on our door.”

  Crown said, “Cole, you’re as stupid as I thought if you think I’m staying here and letting you run this investigation.”

  Nikkie said, “Crown, Derek’s right. You’re way too emotionally invested in this case. You won’t be able to maintain professional indifference.”

  “Go screw yourself,” Crown said. “How about you shove your professional indifference up your ass?”

  “How subtle,” Derek said. “Here’s the thing, Crown, I have a process I follow when I’m working a case and I’m pretty damn sure that you being around will…how shall I say it?…screw me up so bad I won’t be able to do what I need to do. You’re free to take some time to be with your son, but, when it comes to work on the ground, you’re off the case.”

  Crown said, “Your process is drinking shit scotch and stumbling and fumbling you way through the case.”

  “Not going to argue,” Derek said, “but my process works. Nikkie and I will fly out to Ravenswood tomorrow. We need you to make our travel arrangements, and make sure we have a rental car and hotel, both reserved for at least five days.”

  Crown stared at Derek, jaw clenched, body tensed as her thoughts raced to a thousand different conclusions. Knowing Crown and her explosive personality, the conference room’s air was dripping with tension. Derek began tracing the three-inch scar on the left side of his face, a habit of his since a few months after he had put a bullet through his face, causing the scar. For Derek, the scar was a reminder. It reminded him of his wife, Lucy, and how she was shot to death as he watched, held back from trying to stop her death by police procedures. It was a reminder of how desperate he was the day he put the Glock 9mm into his mouth. The scar was a reminder of his wife’s face that flashed in his mind’s eye a split second before he pulled the trigger. The flashing of her face, causing him to turn his head, had sent the bullet ripping through the side of his face, and not through his brain.

  “Okay,” Crown said. “For once, you’re right about something. I am going to fly out to see my son but as soon as I see him, speak with his father and make sure you get your asses out there, I’ll come back here. Don’t get the idea that you being right makes me wrong. It’s just if I see how bad you fumble your way around the investigation, I may fire you from the case.”

  “Crown,” Derek said, “you can’t really fire us since we’re not charging your son for our time.”

  “You bet your sorry ass we’re gonna charge,” Crown snapped. “We’re charging my son and we’re charging his cheating shit-headed father. Plenty. We aren’t a charity, Cole. We’re a business and we need to charge for our expertise.”

  Nikkie said, “I have a feeling you’ve already made travel arrangements.”

  “Of course I did,” Crown said. “Nikkie, you and I are flying first class. Cole, since you’re so concerned about costs, I booked you in coach. Middle row, of course. Flight leaves tomorrow at ten thirty six in the afternoon.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Louis Randall had practiced law for nearly thirty years, most of it behind a desk and seldom in front of a jury. He believed that a client who stands before a judge and jury has a moron for an attorney. Louis was a master of three things. One, finding egregious flaws in police procedures. Two, finding or creating loopholes that set District Attorneys around the Northeast United States head’s spinning. And third, persuading his clients to take a plea over facing a jury.

  His standard practice when accepting a criminal case was to have one of his associates meet with the client while he contacted and then contracted with a private investigator or investigative firm to begin the monotonous and, at times, dangerous tasks of field and background investigation. But when he was contacted by his ex-wife, Victoria Crown, and was told that their son had been arrested, his adherence to standard practice went out the door.

  “I’ll have him out in three hours,” Louis had told Crown. “Four, on the outside.”

  “This isn’t a contest, asshole, and if you try to make this all about you and how the entire law world should bow down before your greatness, I’ll lace your afternoon martini with horse sperm and spread rumors about your beastiality addiction. This is our son, and while you sucked at being a husband, I know you care about Bo. Get him out of that horrible jail and get him out of trouble.”

  “Glad to see you haven’t changed a bit, Crown,” Louis said. “Don’t worry, Bo will be fine. I’m heading down to the county jail now and will use my normal PI for ground work.”

  “Bullshit,” Crown said. “We’re using Derek Cole and his team. He’s better than any of the shitheads you work with.”

  “But mine have relationships with the sheriff’s department. Cole may be good and he may have solved some high profile cases, but he’s also known to go freelance too often and to piss off police departments. My guy does things by the book and doesn’t alienate police.”

  “Good for him,” Crown said. “He sucks some cop dick and makes everyone happy. Cole is taking this case. End of story.”

  Louis paused several seconds. As talented as he was as an orator, he had learned that arguing with his ex-wife was as futile as trying to empty the ocean using a spoon. “Fine,” he said with a heavy sigh. “Cole can take the case. I’ll meet with him as soon as he gets here. Have him contact me when he arrives.”

  “Good choice,” Crown said. “You better take care of our son.”

  “Crown,” Louis said, “Bo will be fine.”

  But after meeting with the district attorney and hearing the charges and mounting evidence building the DA’s case, Louis Randall wasn’t certain that Bo would be fine.

  “I know this must be tough on you, Lou, but the case against your boy is almost the same as us watching him set the fire with our own eyes.” District Attorney Raymond Kafra was classmates with Louis during their undergrad years at Ohio State. They were never close friends, but they knew each other well, both studying law at the university. Louis went on to Michigan State for his advanced degree in law while Raymond attended New York University.

  Ray Kafra had been elected to the DA’s office three years prior and it was well known he had his sights set on earning an appointment to the New York State Supreme Court. To earn that, Ray believed he needed at least a ninety-seven percent conviction rate, four percentage points higher than the national average. To reach that objective, Ray worked closely with all local police agencies, including the Reynold’s county sheriff’s department, and was never shy about expressing dissatisfaction when police procedures were sloppy, lazily conducted or failed to produce a compelling amount of evidence.

  “Full disclosure, what am I looking at?” Louis asked. He knew he’d get the DA’s case in excruciating detail once the case went to trial. The grand jury trial was scheduled for the next day and neither Ray, Louis, or anyone with any knowledge of the evidence against Bo Randall believed the grand jury wouldn’t find enough compelling evidence to change Bo with arson and murder and send the case before a jury.

  “Won’t be a complete list. You understand that, right?” Ray said.

  “I should hope not,” Louis said. “If you had your case ready to go this soon, I’d wouldn’t be starting my own investigation but would be discussing plea options with you. Tell me, what am I up against?”

  “We have Bo’s prints on a flare foun
d in the basement of Brian Mack’s home.”

  Louis held up his hand, halting Ray’s disclosure. “A one hundred percent match?”

  “No,” Ray said. “Ninety percent certainty. Close enough when coupled with everything else.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “You’ve heard about the knife taped to your client’s couch, I assume?”

  “Yes,” Louis said. “And I believe your forensics believe my client’s fingerprints were on the knife, the tape which held the knife in place and the note that was tucked between the knife and the seat cushion.”

  “All true.”

  “And I was led to believe the note—which was clearly not written by my client based on the pedestrian handwriting comparison I completed—was written on the back of a receipt?”

  Ray said, “Also true. That receipt was from Bass Pro Shops, with your client’s signature on the credit card holder’s signature line. The receipt was for the knife, duct tape and three five gallon gas cans.”

  “What was unique about the gas cans my client purchased?” Louis asked.

  “You mean besides being the exact types of cans found at the crime scene?”

  Louis ignored Ray’s question and further clarified his question, “What was so unique about those three cans that you felt compelled to mention that my client purchased them?”

  “Lou,” Ray said, a crooked smile on his face, “this isn’t time to start refuting evidence. You asked me what we have and I’m telling you. If you plan on trying to persuade me to toss evidence out, you can save your breath.”

  Louis said, “Fair enough, Ray. I appreciate what you’re doing. I just want to fully understand what evidence you are planning to use in front of a grand jury. Wouldn’t want you to make my job too easy on this one.”

  “Trust me,” Ray said, “this isn’t going to be easy for you. Not for you as a father, and not for you as a lawyer.” He paused a few beats. “Want to continue?”

  Ray Kafra spent the next fifteen minutes going over the building and evolving case against Louis Randall’s son. When the two were finished, Ray said, “Louis, I’m sorry that this is your son. I honestly wish that a mistake was made, but this is as close to an open and shut case as I’ve seen. I know you can’t, or won’t, agree, but I think you should start thinking about a plea.”

  “I appreciate your advice, Ray. I really do. There will be time to discuss a plea, if it comes to that. Right now, I need to get my client out of custody so he can assist in our investigation.”

  “I’m asking for remand without bail,” Ray said. “Pretty sure I’ll get what I ask for, considering the crime.”

  “Your entire case is circumstantial. I’ll get bail.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Their flight landed in Syracuse—after a fifty minute delay and a two hour layover in Philadelphia—at six thirty. Getting to Syracuse, New York from almost anywhere by plane was never an easy task. Few airlines flew direct flights from Cleveland to Syracuse, most flying to Chicago, Washington, D.C. or Philadelphia first then completing the flight to Syracuse.

  Crown and Nikkie, having flown both legs in first class, arrived in Syracuse feeling refreshed and ready to begin the investigation. Derek, who flew both legs either crammed in the middle seat or wedged against the window, deep in the bowels of the planes, arrived cranky, smelly and far from refreshed.

  Being six feet tall and weighing close to two hundred pounds, Derek’s muscular body was not made for plane travel. Though he had earned “gold elite” status on American, Crown booked the flights, assigned the seats and felt compelled to let Derek know she wasn’t happy with his insistence that she play no role in investigation case against her son.

  “Have a nice flight?” Crown asked as the three made their way to baggage claim.

  “Absolutely wonderful,” Derek said. “Being crammed against a wall and seated next to a fleshed out, sweaty carpet salesman from DeMoines on the final leg, inspired me.”

  “How so?” Crown asked.

  Derek noticed a slight slur in Crown’s speech. He paused, looked at Crown, then said, “I think we, as an agency, are getting too comfortable. When I get back to the office, I’m going to make some changes to my agency. Take some of the comforts away. Make us a little hungrier for success. And, I’ll be implementing a zero tolerance policy on alcohol use during work hours.”

  “Good luck with that,” Crown replied. “I’ll help you out by getting rid of the shitty scotch bottles you hide in your credenza.”

  After picking up their rental cars and driving to their hotel outside of Utica, New York, they checked into their rooms.

  “Crown,” Derek said as the three entered the elevator and rose up towards their respective floors, “I need you to call your ex-husband and arrange a meeting for me and Nikkie. Find out where he is with the case.”

  “Already did that,” Crown replied. “You two are meeting with Mr. Perfect for drinks at eight thirty tonight. I’m heading over to Bo’s house.”

  Nikkie said, “Bo’s out of jail?”

  “Released under a million dollar bond, to my ex’s custody. Not sure how he pulled that off, but I have to give old little dick credit: He’s good at what he does.”

  As the elevator doors pulled open, Derek noticed that Crown was not carrying the suitcase she had brought with her on the airplane. “Crown,” he said, “where is your luggage?”

  “In the car.”

  “Why didn’t you bring it with you to the room?”

  “I’m not staying here. I’m staying with my son at his house.”

  Derek stopped, his arms bent, palms open, his countenance filled with confusion. “Why am I paying for a hotel room for you if you aren’t planning to stay in the hotel?”

  “Points. I need to rack up my membership points.”

  ˇˇˇˇˇˇˇˇˇ

  “To be fully honest with you, with both of you, I’m not happy about being forced to hire you for this case. My ex can be persuasive, as I’m sure you’ve realized. I have a process I follow and my usual hired investigators know how to follow my process. I’m not suggesting you two aren’t good at what you do, that you wouldn’t do a bang-up job; I just need to make certain you don’t do anything that will hurt this case. What I’m saying is, I’m not at all interested in babysitting. If that sounds too harsh, you may want to reconsider working for me. I tell it like I see it.”

  Louis Randall sat across from Derek and Nikkie in the high-backed booth, set deep in the corner of The Chairman’s Restaurant. The restaurant’s walls were crowded with caricatures of famous Italian-Americans. From famous singers, actors and sports legends, to the more notorious leaders of the criminal world. The corner booth, where Derek and Nikkie were chatting with Louis Randall, sat beneath a black and white caricature of Frank Sinatra with only the drawing’s eyes revealing a splash of brilliant color. The booth, known to frequent diners as “The Chairman’s Booth,” was reserved for well-connected patrons not afraid of the three hundred dollar minimum the booth demanded.

  “We’re used to working with different types of employers, each with their own unique set of expectations, processes and desired outcomes. We’re sure things will go smoothly.” Derek responded without missing a beat.

  Derek considered himself to be a good judge of character. His wife, Lucy, used to tell Derek his ability to read people gave him an unfair advantage.

  “It’s like you know what people are thinking before they do,” she had said. “Maybe that’s what makes you a good cop and what will make you a wonderful detective someday.”

  “Someday,” Derek had said. “That is the operative word.”

  “You watch,” Lucy had told him, flashing the smile Derek believed was reserved only for his eyes, “things are going to start changing for you any day now. I’d bet my life on it.”

  Three days later, Lucy’s wager was accepted when a deranged murderer placed a gun against her temple, pulled the trigger and sent Derek’s life into a tailspin of changes.r />
  As he sat across the booth from Louis, watching him direct most of his attention to who was coming in to the restaurant, who was sitting with whom and what a particular red-haired waitress was wearing, Derek knew that he and Louis wouldn’t be sharing personal emails any time soon. He also knew that working with Louis was going to be quite a challenge. Derek wasn’t sure if Louis felt compelled to assert his authority because of Crown and her undeniable ability to still control her ex-husband, or if Louis was just a pompous asshole who believed that his way was always the best way.

  Louis stood an inch or two under six feet and kept his salt and pepper colored hair slicked back and close to his head. It was apparent that he spent more than his fair share of time on a treadmill, but it was also apparent that Louis Randall enjoyed food, liquor or both in frequent doses of excess. His gut protruded several inches over his alligator-skin belt and seemed disproportional to his toned legs, arms, chest and shoulders. His dark brown eyes—which continued to reveal his greater interest in what was occurring beyond the confines of the high-backed booth—were framed by sagging lids above, and darkened bags below, giving him the look of a basset hound.

  "Well, be that as it may," Louis said when his attention returned towards Derek and Nikkie, "but your past experience with other clients and investigating other cases connotes that I need to concern myself with your methods. Remember, this is not only a client, he is my son." Louis held his attention on the two for no longer than a few seconds before the attractive redhead—her dress cut a bit too long for his taste—walked by the Chairman's Booth and offered a sideways smile to him, drawing his attention away.

  "And Crown's son, too," Nikkie said, her voice cutting, kept professionally low but unmistakable in its objective to be heard. "We get you're not enamored with having been forced by Crown to hire us. The truth is, if it weren't for Crown, this isn't a case we would have accepted. But here we are with you and there's work to be done. So why don't we skip over what everyone feels about each other, and get down to the case? Sound like a plan?" Nikkie was not someone who believed people needed to feel comfortable with those they worked with. The quest for comfort was better left to those interested in finding mates. Her father had taught her that when there's a job to be done (and there's always a job needing to be done), it's best to smile, roll your sleeves up and get it done.