Rough Justice (The Scarecrow and Lady Kingston Book 1)

by Tristan Vick

  “Si quieres atrapar peces, primero debe conseguir su culo mojado.”

  In rough translation, it meant, “If you want to catch a fish, you must first get your ass wet.”

  Even though she always made it a habit to share this sage wisdom with her employer, Beck never seemed to know what she was saying. What she was trying to say was, “If you want something badly enough, you first have to pay the price.”

  Well, at least she could feel comforted by the fact that she had given the advice today, even if it was only to the visage of Beck staring back at her from the pages of the magazine. Feeling drowsy, the maid put her feet up, laid back in the chair, put the magazine over her face, and began her afternoon catnap.

  15

  STOOLPIGEON

  Leaning back in his chair, Blake “The Razor” McDoogle watched his guest approach the glass window of the visitor’s booth and take a seat. Picking up the phone, he waited for his caller to do the same, then asked, “To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit, Detective?”

  John Scarecrow looked long and hard at the felon, studied the natural signs of aging in the man’s weathered face, the salt and pepper tufts on the sides, and the deep wrinkles of crow’s feet that formed when Blake smiled at him. “I’ve come to ask you a couple of questions.”

  Slicking back his mostly black hair, McDoogle leaned back in his chair again and thought for a moment. “In that case, I grant you two questions out of what kindness remains of my withered old heart.”

  “Will you answer honestly?” Scarecrow inquired.

  Raising his right hand, McDoogle replied, “God as my witness. But you see, Detective, now you only have one question left.”

  “Did you coerce your ex-wife to try to take out Julie Kingston?”

  Leaning forward again, McDoogle flashed Scarecrow another big, toothy grin. “What? Did something happen, Detective? You know, being on the inside, the news takes its sweet time.”

  “You know very well what I mean.”

  “Assuming I did, and assuming I could manage such a feat, as you can see, I’m pretty much trapped in here like a goddamn orange and black clownfish,” McDoogle complained as he tugged on his standard issue, bright orange prison inmate uniform. “But it seems to me that you’re fishing for a motive.”

  “It’s nothing personal,” Scarecrow reminded him. “But it’s my job to investigate all possible suspects.”

  “You’d think,” McDoogle said, rubbing the stubble on his chin, “that being locked up in a Federal prison would be a pretty air-tight alibi.”

  “That doesn’t answer my question. Did you or didn’t you order the hit?”

  “Honestly?”

  “Honestly,” Scarecrow replied.

  “Nobody double crosses me. Nobody takes my livelihood and fortune and gets away with it. Nobody dishonors me, and if they do, then you can goddamn well be sure they’ll be sleeping with one eye open at night. I didn’t get the nickname “The Razor” for nothing, you know?”

  “So what you’re saying then is you have anger management issues?”

  Blake laughed and sat back in his chair. He eyed John Scarecrow with an amused sort of grin. “You’re not intimidated by me in the least, are you?”

  “Not really,” Scarecrow answered.

  “Most people would be cowering in my presence. Sure, they’d try and mask it with a brave façade, but they would still reek of fear. The look in their eyes always betrays them. But you … I can’t get a read on you. It’s probably that unholy mask you wear that’s throwing me off.”

  Touching his face, Scarecrow looked puzzled for a moment. “Mask? This isn’t a …”

  “But to answer your question,” McDoogle interrupted, not giving Scarecrow the chance to enlighten the criminal, “Kingston is the one who put me behind bars,” he said, rubbing his fingers through his oily hair once again. “So of course I get a hard on anytime her name gets mentioned. As for the ex “Mrs. Razor,” well, she took everything I had and then some. So I figured, why not kill two birds with one stone? Better yet, why not have the first bird kill the second bird and then ruin herself in the process?”

  “So you admit to manipulating her then?”

  “Beck is Play-Doh in my hands,” McDoogle said as he made sculpting motions with both hands. “But really, who’s to say what was going through Beck’s head? Certainly not I. Besides, unless you have some real evidence against me, it sounds to me like this is more of an unfounded accusation than a substantiated claim. So just keep fishing, Detective. Maybe someday you’ll get good at it.”

  Staring back at the prisoner, Scarecrow smiled once and then just as quickly grew serious again. “Does the name Tiffany Blair mean anything to you?”

  “That’d be three questions now, wouldn’t it?” McDoogle said with a curt smile.

  “Technically, you didn’t answer my second question. All you did was duck it.”

  As the prison guard came up and informed them that their time was up, McDoogle smiled once more, briefly, then said, “I enjoyed our little chat. Really. It was so nice to hear that my two favorite ladies are doing well.”

  With that, McDoogle hung up the phone, waved goodbye, and waited for the guard to usher him back to his prison cell.

  Scarecrow couldn’t shake the unnerving feeling he got from McDoogle’s obsessiveness with Julie and Beck. It wasn’t just that he was a psychopath craving revenge. It was that he really did have an unhealthy fascination with both women. Scarecrow couldn’t help but feel overly protective of both Julie and Beck because after all, they were his two favorite ladies as well. And he’d do anything to ensure their safety and wellbeing.

  Having returned to his prison cell, McDoogle laid down on his cot and started whistling “This Old Man Came Rolling Home” when suddenly an annoying buzz interrupted him, and his cell doors slid open. Sitting up, he saw two guards take their position outside the door, and then John Scarecrow strode in.

  “What’s he doing here?” McDoogle demanded to know as he stood up, wagging his finger at Scarecrow. The guards squared their shoulders, silence their only reply.

  “You know I’m friends with the warden, right?” Scarecrow said, pointing at McDoogle, then himself.

  “I don’t care if you’re friends with Jesus H. Christ, you don’t just get to barge in here like you own the place.”

  “I don’t think you realize how this works,” Scarecrow relayed. “You don’t have rights. You relinquished your rights when you broke the law. When you killed all those people. So when I ask you a question, I expect an answer.”

  “Well,” McDoogle chuckled, “you’ve got a big pair on you if you think for one second that you can barge in here and make me turn tricks for you like some show dog.”

  “No, I don’t expect you to do anything for me other than serve out your life sentence.”

  “So if you already know you’re just wasting your breath with me, then why come bother me at all?”

  “Do you know what an ahnentafel is?”

  “An ahn fel… what?”

  “It’s another name for a family genealogy that’s written in such a way as to not require the use of a family tree. Counties keep them in the registry to help keep track of registered voters, past and present. If you get incarcerated, your name is stricken out, but the catalog remains. Everyone you’re related to is right there in that little book.”

  “So why you telling me this?”

  “You see, I did a bit of research and found out that you have a sister.”

  “A half-sister,” McDoogle corrected. “And how the hell did you find that out? Nobody knows about that except for me and my sister.”

  “You’re right. Under normal circumstances, your names wouldn’t show up together unless your parents had further siblings.”

  McDoogle eyed Scarecrow and then gave up and backed down. “Go ahead, Detective. I have the feeling you’re going to tell me anyway.”

  “After your father remarried, he and his second wife did
have a child, but they ensured the child would be born on a belated honeymoon in Mexico so as not to have record of the birth in the States. Getting back across the border was easy since a newborn doesn’t need a passport as long as both parents show they are legal citizens.”

  “So what of it?” McDoogle pried.

  “So you’re forgetting that we live in the twenty-first century, the age of the genome. All I had to do was get a court order to retrieve your genetic profile from your trial. Lo and behold, your DNA matches with a young girl who was born in Mexico but never acquired U.S. citizenship. Your sister Tiffany. Additionally, and just as fascinating, it seems you both share a half-sister from your mother but a different father. A half-sister by the name of Jersey Blair. But I assume you already knew all this?”

  McDoogle sat still, staring at Scarecrow in silence. His lack of words spoke volumes.

  “It’s interesting the types of people we find we’re related to. It makes tracing one’s genealogy truly exciting, don’t you think?”

  McDoogle folded his arms and frowned, obviously displeased by the turn the conversation had taken. He didn’t like people prying into his personal affairs. “So what are you implying?”

  “I’m not implying anything, sir. But if you knew that your half-sister Jersey was carrying out a vendetta against those she perceived to be your kin’s killer, I’m sure I could find incentive enough to compel you to find it in your heart to share such a valuable piece of information with me.”

  “What kind of incentive?” McDoogle asked, raising an eyebrow.

  “Well, seeing as how you’re serving three back to back life sentences, cutting time off your sentence is out of the question. But getting you a better cell, a fluffier pillow perhaps, that sort of thing.”

  McDoogle had to stop himself from laughing out loud. “There you go making assumptions again, Detective. You assume I’ll simply help you because I have no reason not to. Right? But here’s a little secret. I hate cops. In fact, I hate people. It’s why I’m in here. I love to hate. And I love killing more. So as you can see, unless you bring me something more significant than a family tree, I’m afraid you’re shit out of luck.”

  “I’m offering you the carrot here,” Scarecrow informed. “Don’t make me take it back.”

  “Are you threatening me?” McDoogle stood up and got in Scarecrow’s face. He stared at him with the cold gaze of a killer.

  Scarecrow suddenly broke the tension by rubbing his temples and saying in a low voice, “I’m very brave generally, but today I seem to have a headache.”

  While McDoogle continued to eyeball Scarecrow, he stealthily slipped a shank out from his sleeve. It was a toothbrush with two razorblades wedged in either side of the head, all held tight with rubber bands. “I’ll answer one last question if you answer one of mine,” McDoogle said as a crooked grin crawled across his otherwise stone-cold face. “Tit for tat, if you will.”

  “Deal,” Scarecrow replied.

  “Do I make you nervous?”

  “Not especially.”

  “Does it bother you more that I killed twelve people on the outside or that I skinned them alive?”

  “You’re asking me to choose between two evils where there is no lesser evil in the eyes of the law. Killing and torture are both wrong.”

  “That’s the consensus, anyway,” McDoogle laughed. Then, with lightning-quick reflexes, McDoogle swiped the blade, aiming to cut Scarecrow’s jugular. But just as he made his move, the lights flickered—going out for a brief moment—causing him to lose sight of his target—then just as suddenly they came back on again.

  McDoogle held the shank in his hand and looked around the room. He couldn’t believe his eyes. The whole bloody cell was empty. Stranger still, it was all locked up tight. The door was sealed shut, and the two guards posted outside were nowhere to be found. In fact, there was no trace of anyone at all, least of all the Scarecrow. It was if they had never been there in the first place. McDoogle ran his hand through his greasy hair and tried to wrap his mind around it.

  “Funny,” McDoogle said to himself. “He left without me answering his burning question.” Looking down at his bed, McDoogle saw a strange object resting on his pillow. It was a neatly folded origami crane. Walking over he picked it up, held it up to the light, and inspected it. Making out a trace of writing that was on the inside fold, he unfolded the paper, flattened it on his bed, and then read the message.

  My last question is this: Has the ghost of your sordid past come back to haunt us all?

  “That’s for me to know and you to find out,” McDoogle answered aloud as he tore up the letter and threw it on the floor.

  16

  SUSPICIONS OF FOUL PLAY

  Munching on a blueberry bagel caked in cream cheese, Julie leaned back in the diner chair, looked at John from across the table, and flashed him a pithy grin. “What is it?” she asked. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

  “Like what?” John asked, taking off his fedora. John set it on the table and brushed the wispy strands of doll-like hair from his face.

  “I don’t know … it’s like you can’t decide whether to ask me out on a date or tell me my grandmother died.”

  “Oh, how is your nana doing, by the way?”

  “She’s doing well. Had her hip replaced this past October. Said she needed it to stop the wobble that was throwing off her aim at the shooting range. I told her it wasn’t the hip so much as the caliber that was throwing her off. I recommended she trade down and try something other than the .45, but she wasn’t having any of it.”

  “You gotta love your nana,” Scarecrow said cheerfully.

  “Yeah,” Julie said, thinking fondly of her. “But I’m pretty certain you didn’t take me out for bagels simply to talk about Nana’s health.”

  “Well, as much as I care about your nana, you’d be right. You’re not going to believe this,” Scarecrow informed, “but Jersey Blair has a notorious step-brother, and he’s none other than our old pal Blake “The Razor” McDoogle.”

  A silence came over Julie as she fell deep into thought. Her chewing slowed and then, right when it seemed she was about to stop to swallow, she took another bite. “So you’re thinking the hit on me, the threats against Beck, and the murder of these prostitutes might all be connected somehow?”

  “Honestly, I’m not sure what to think. But there is something bugging me about this string of events.”

  “I know exactly what you mean. There doesn’t seem to be any clear motive behind a single one of them.”

  “Apart from Blake’s attempt at revenge.”

  “Yeah, apart from that.”

  “But even that strikes me as odd. As if it were meant as a distraction for something bigger.”

  “Bigger? Like what?”

  “Well, we all know his disdain for you and his ex, but was the risk worth it? I mean, having a cop killed and framing Beck for it wouldn’t have just made the headlines, it would be damning when the trail led back to him. It would have likely landed Blake on death row. So …”

  “So …” Julie cut in. “You’re thinking maybe he had no choice in the matter?”

  “Right.”

  “But the only person who could get to him would likely be Jersey Blair herself.”

  “The question is,” Scarecrow said as he rubbed his chin, “what does she have on Blake that would get him so scared that he’d be willing to risk a veritable death sentence?”

  “Assuming he had succeeded, we wouldn’t be on this case regarding the mysterious string of homicides related to Senator Durrell. So the other question is, who do we know that would be working the case in lieu of my absence?”

  “Jersey Blair,” Scarecrow answered.

  “Right. And if Beckensale was out of the way as well, it would be the final nail in the coffin of her call girl service, which would be put permanently out of commission.”

  Suddenly, Scarecrow snapped his fingers and looked at Julie with big eyes and an imposs
ibly wide grin. “What if, and this is just a theory, but what if the senator really was the target to begin with?”

  Julie raised an eyebrow. “Go on.”

  “Okay,” Scarecrow said, panning his hands like a movie director. “It’s like this. The FBI has something on the senator. Assume they found some skeletons rattling around in the senator’s closet.”

  “Like the death of a prostitute?”

  “More like the death of several,” Scarecrow said, pinning his pointer finger to the table to emphasize his point. “What if our strangled victim wasn’t the first?”

  “I sure hope you have something for me because you’re skating by as it is.”

  Scarecrow pulled an envelope from his breast pocket and slid it across the table to Julie. He watched her face as she opened it and looked at him with a look of shock.

  “You’ve gotta be kidding me.”

  “It’s all right there,” Scarecrow said.

  “It’s frakking longer than my laundry list and grocery list combined.”

  “So you see my point now? The government hears about these overseas expenditures and begins to investigate. What they find is a trail of women’s bodies following the senator’s globetrotting from Thailand to Singapore, from South Korea to the Philippines.”

  “All Asian countries,” Julie said with wretched revelation, her stomach beginning to churn.

  “Your hunch that the senator’s racism was deep-seated seems accurate. What we couldn’t have foreseen is the fact that he was a serial killer of women.”

  “So the government finds out about these incidents and then, like any civilized government, tries to sweep it all under the rug.”

  “Naturally. Something of this magnitude could never be made public. It would stir up an international crisis. The minority populations would be outraged. All the countries of the victims would be outraged. Everyone would be demanding retribution. So what better way to get rid of the problem than to play his own vices against him? Make it look like an accident.”