Jessie Black Legal Thrillers Box Set 1

by Larry A Winters

  With an expert shot Garrett would never have guessed him capable of, Oliver might just have saved his life, and those of countless others—assuming they didn’t kill themselves in their dash for the stairs.

  He realized two things at once. First, because of what had just happened, Bart Oliver—a lazy, ignorant burden on the Sheriff’s Office, was going to be hailed as a hero, while he, Kurt Garrett, would barely rate a mention.

  And second, the evacuation of the courthouse would almost certainly be canceled now, with everyone held on the first floor in case other guilty people were hiding among the innocent. Garrett could live with that outcome. It was the smart thing to do.

  7

  Leary left his car behind the roadblock and approached the Criminal Justice Center on foot, trying to wrap his mind around what he was seeing. Filbert Street was closed off at 13th, the stretch of road clogged with police vehicles. Red and blue lights beat against the building’s concrete facade. Cops swarmed around squad cars, unmarked cars, SWAT vans, and a mobile command center. Reporters stood along the periphery, backs to the action, speaking into cameras.

  Jessie’s in that building.

  The thought didn’t just scare him. It made him angry at himself. He should be in there with her. If he hadn’t decided to meet with Jacoby this morning to complain about his own stalled career, he would be. Now he was stuck out here, powerless to help her, and all he’d gained in return was some lame advice about hard work and sacrifice.

  He held up his badge to ward off the uniforms protecting the perimeter. They stepped out of his path, and he made his way into the throng. He headed for the mobile command unit, walking with purpose, as if he had every right to be there.

  The door of the van was open. Inside, he could see several men, all of whom outranked him by a wide margin. Men Jacoby would probably say he needed to make friends with, if he was to have any chance of advancing through the ranks to become one of them. Right now, that goal felt so silly and petty he could barely imagine feeling so strongly about it less than an hour ago. He climbed inside the van and faced them. “I need to get inside the building,” he said.

  “And you are?” The words came from a man at the center of the group. Even someone as politically unconnected as Leary recognized him. His six-foot-five frame, bald head, and crooked teeth would probably have been sufficiently distinctive, but the scar that zigzagged down the left side of his face made him unmistakable. Caleb Slone, Deputy Commissioner of Operations. Slone was almost as high up the food chain as a cop could get, tasked with overseeing the Special Operations Bureau, Patrol Bureau, Narcotics Bureau, and Detective Bureau, and answering only to the Commissioner himself.

  “Mark Leary, sir. I’m a detective in the Homicide Division.”

  “I think you’re in the wrong van,” one of the other men said. Leary didn’t recognize him. A few of the other men chuckled. Slone’s face remained impassive.

  “Sir,” Leary repeated, speaking only to the big man, “I need to get inside the courthouse.”

  “Mark Leary,” Slone said. The scar seemed to squirm on his face as he spoke. “I know that name. You’re the lead detective on the Tyrone Nash investigation.”

  “Yes, sir.” Leary saw an opportunity and seized it. “Isn’t that what this incident is about? Someone trying to murder a witness in Nash’s trial? That’s why I can help.”

  “I agree,” Slone said. “But not from inside the building. We need your knowledge of Nash, everything you know, anything that might shed some light on what his intentions are.” He turned in the small space of the van, indicating one of the other men. “This is Lieutenant Kareem Chancey. He’s a hostage negotiation expert. Kareem’s heading up this operation.” Chancey was tall, reed-thin, his skin a dark shade of brown. He remained silent, but his jaw rhythmically ground a wad of gum as he studied Leary.

  “Why a hostage negotiator?” Leary said. “Has anyone been taken hostage?”

  Chancey stopped chewing. “Right now,” he said, “we’re considering everyone in that building to be a hostage.”

  “I mean, have the intruders made any demands?” Leary said. “Have they made contact with you?”

  “Not yet,” Chancey said, “but they will. It’s only a matter of time.”

  Slone leaned forward, cupping his knees in his oversized hands. “Our working theory is that they’ll request a vehicle, possibly a helicopter, and try to escape with Nash.”

  “You think this is a prison break?” Leary said.

  "It’s a theory,” Chancey said. He must have seen something in Leary’s reaction, because he frowned and said, “You don’t like it?”

  Leary couldn’t help but make a face. The theory just didn’t fit with the facts he knew. Jessie had told him the gunman was clean-cut and professional, a white guy with a military bearing. Tyrone Nash was a small-time gang member from West Philly. Even if he were somehow able to orchestrate a prison break—and based on his encounters with the man, Leary found that highly unlikely—he wouldn’t use professionals. He’d use street thugs. “Just doesn’t feel like Nash’s style,” he said.

  “Which is why you can help us best by sitting down with Lieutenant Chancey and his team and briefing them on everything you know about Tyrone Nash,” Slone said. He frowned. “Including his style.”

  Leary did not like where this was heading. He saw himself stuck in a van, being interviewed, while Jessie fought for her life inside the building only feet away. “I’m sure you already pulled my case book,” he said. “I take good notes. Everything I could tell you is already in there. Please, just get me inside the courthouse. I can be much more useful on the ground.”

  Chancey shook his head. “The building is locked down and no one is going in or out until we have more information.”

  Slone nodded. “I agree.”

  Chancey rose from his seat and took Leary’s arm. “Come on, let’s go for a walk.”

  The fresh air was a relief after the close confines of the van. Leary kept pace with Chancey’s long strides as the man cut through the crowd to a relatively open pocket about fifteen feet from the building. Chancey stopped and reached into his pocket. His hand came back with a gum wrapper, into which he spat his gum. He pulled a pack of cigarettes from his other pocket, stuck a cigarette in his mouth, and lit it. So much for fresh air.

  Chancey inhaled deeply, then let out the smoke and said, “You were right in there. We did pull your case book, and it was comprehensive. All the same, I’d like to hear about the investigation from you.”

  “Yeah, okay.” Leary tried to maintain eye contact, but the edifice of the Criminal Justice Center kept tugging at his attention. It was maddening to not know what was happening inside, and whether Jessie was okay. “Where do you want me to start?”

  “The beginning.”

  Leary nodded, glancing again at the building. “The initial 9-1-1 call came in early on the morning of April 10. It was an anonymous call, but we later identified the caller as Troy Dunmore once he came forward to provide more information. Dunmore is the driver of a recycling truck. He was collecting recyclables and witnessed the murder.”

  Chancey blew a stream of smoke into the air. “This isn’t a trial. I don’t want to hear your testimony. Talk to me cop to cop.”

  “It was a gang shooting.”

  “Tyrone Nash shot a rival gang member?” Chancey said.

  “Not a rival gang member. Same gang. The victim, Wyatt Jackson, was a lower ranking member who answered to Nash. Jackson sold drugs, mostly crack, that Nash supplied. Nash apparently believed that Jackson was ripping him off. He met him in an alleyway behind a bar called Cooper’s, shot him three times at point blank range, and left his body next to the dumpster. Definitely not Nash’s first murder, but the first one we were able to find enough incriminating evidence to arrest him for, mostly thanks to Dunmore.”

  “Who then recanted his testimony at the preliminary hearing,” Chancey said.

  Leary nodded. “That was frustra
ting. We think Nash got to him somehow. Intimidated him. But by that time another witness had come forward.”

  “Reginald Tuck.” Chancey spoke the name with obvious distaste. “A professional snitch, from what I understand.”

  “That’s an understatement in Tuck’s case. Apparently he has a knack for wheedling confessions from his cellmates. Nash is his fourth or fifth, I think. Tuck reached out to the prosecutor, Jessica Black, and offered to make a deal. Jessie wasn’t going to take it, at first. She doesn’t like using testimony from prison informants. But after Dunmore flaked, she had no choice. The judge would have discharged Nash at the prelim without another witness.”

  Chancey arched an eyebrow. “It was that shaky a case?”

  “We never found the murder weapon, a nine-millimeter which was probably illegally purchased. The motive wasn’t all that clear, something between a crime of passion—revenge—and a premeditated business decision. Nash even had a bogus alibi, a prostitute willing to testify that she was with him at the time of the shooting. We needed Dunmore’s eyewitness account, or, failing that, Nash’s own confession.”

  “You don’t think Tuck made that up?”

  “The confession?” Leary shrugged. “I don’t know. The DA’s Office has put Tuck on the stand before, so they must have some faith in him. And he knew details of the crime that had not been released to the public.” Most importantly, Leary trusted Jessie’s instincts. He knew she would never risk tainting the state’s case—or her career—with perjury. But after what Jacoby had said to him this morning, he thought it best to say as little about Jessie as possible.

  “And now it’s a month later,” Chancey said, “and five armed men infiltrate the courthouse, and one of them attempts to murder Reggie Tuck moments before his testimony at Nash’s trial.”

  “Technically, it was moments before my testimony at Nash’s trial, but yeah, that’s about right.”

  “So we know Nash eliminated one witness—Dunmore—through intimidation,” Chancey said, “and another witness—Tuck—is almost eliminated through assassination. That’s a pattern.” Chancey took another long drag from his cigarette and stared past Leary at the courthouse, clearly pleased with his theory. The easiest thing to do now, and probably the one that Jacoby would advise, would be to agree with Chancey, to subscribe to his theory that Nash was behind this.

  But Leary didn’t believe that. “I disagree, Lieutenant.”

  “Oh?” Chancey looked interested, not defensive. Despite himself, Leary felt relieved. Petty or not, part of him still wanted a promotion, and pissing off a guy like Chancey was not a good way to increase his chances. “Why do you say that?”

  “Witness intimidation is typical gang behavior. A carefully planned infiltration of a secure government building is not. It doesn’t make sense to me that Nash is behind this.”

  “But we know that Reginald Tuck was targeted.”

  Leary nodded. “So maybe Tuck is the person we should be looking into, not Nash.”

  Chancey returned his attention to his cigarette, pressing it to his mouth and breathing in. The air around them reeked of smoke, but Leary made sure not to show his distaste. Finally, Chancey nodded. “That’s a good idea. I’d like you to see what you can find on Tuck. Let me know if there’s anything that could link him to the mysterious gunmen.”

  “Lieutenant, with all due respect, I really think I should be inside the courthouse. I can talk to Tuck, get answers directly from him.”

  Chancey dropped his cigarette on the pavement and ground it out under his shoe. “No, Detective, I think your skills will be much more helpful to us on the outside. Find me when you have more information.” He turned away and started walking back to the mobile command unit. It was a blunt signal that their meeting was over.

  “Yes, sir,” Leary muttered.

  8

  Nash was sitting in a cell in the seventh floor holding area, trying to clean his finger nails, when he heard the first shouts. At first, he didn’t move. He’d be in front of the jury soon, and appearance mattered. Pendleton was bringing him a clean suit, but he felt dirty. One of the worst parts about being locked up was that it was damn near impossible to keep your fingernails clean.

  He didn’t move when he heard more shouts, and didn’t even lift his head until he saw deputy sheriffs run past the holding cells toward the conference rooms. He heard one of them say something about a panic button as he ran past. Nash looked at the man he was sharing his cell with, a gray-haired old dude who hadn’t spoken one word since he’d arrived. “Yo, pops, you hear that? Panic button. What do you think that’s about?”

  The man only shrugged.

  “And all these deputies running, must be an emergency or something, right?”

  The old man scratched his leg.

  “Can’t you talk, stupid old fuck?”

  The man looked away.

  “Asshole.”

  There were two men in the holding cell across the way. They pushed their faces against the bars and strained to look. “You see anything?” Nash called across to them.

  “Nah,” one of them said, shaking his head.

  Nash sighed. Another bad part of being locked up was the boredom. Not being able to do all the shit he wanted to do, always having to wait and wait some more. He waited now. Then, after what felt like forever, one of the deputies—the dyke with the thick glasses, Erlinger—came back with someone. At first, Nash didn’t even recognize the man Erlinger had with her. Wearing a suit, he looked different. But then it hit him. Reggie Tuck. The rat’s gaze met Nash’s for a split second before he looked away.

  “Give me the tie,” Erlinger said to Tuck. Tuck looked like the woman had asked him to hand over his mother’s ashes. He tugged the knot of the tie loose. The silk made a whistling sound as he pulled it from the collar of his shirt. He ran it across his hands, as if savoring the texture, before he let Erlinger take it from him. The look on his face when Erlinger balled it up and shoved it in her pocket made Nash smile. Erlinger put him in one of the empty cells across from Nash.

  Nash snorted a laugh. “Well look who’s back. What happened, Reggie? Your bitch prosecutor friend decided she had enough of your ugly ass?”

  Reggie was all smiles. “No, man, she loves my ass. Kept telling me how good it looks in my new suit. How about your ass, Ty? I bet its gonna get lots of love during your life sentence.”

  Nash clenched his teeth and had to hold himself back from hitting something. Last time he got pissed off in a situation like this, he wound up breaking his own hand. Hurt like a bitch, too. That was a third bad part of being locked up—it limited the options for venting your rage. Nash flexed his hand. Punching walls was stupid. He wasn’t going to do that again.

  “What’s the matter, Ty?” Reggie said. “Got nothing to say? I guess that’s because you already told me so much, right?”

  “Shut up, both of you,” Erlinger said. “No talking.” She glared at Reggie, but if her expression was supposed to be intimidating, it wasn’t working. Nash had seen scary lesbo dykes before, but Erlinger wasn’t one of them. He doubted it was even possible to look scary through those grandma glasses. She looked more like she was trying not to shit her pants.

  “Yo, what happened in the conference rooms?” one of the other men said. “What was all that about a panic button?”

  “No talking,” Erlinger repeated. “That means all of you.”

  “Come on, lady, if there’s some dangerous shit going on, you gotta tell us. You can’t just keep us locked up and not tell us anything!” the man’s cellmate said.

  “There’s nothing to tell,” Erlinger said, “so sit down and be quiet.”

  “What’s a panic button?” the first man said.

  “It’s something you don’t need to worry about, okay?” Erlinger said.

  But they wouldn’t shut up, and Erlinger was getting visibly shaken by the barrage of questions and demands. Nash smirked. He rose from his bench and walked to the bars of his cell—as
close to Erlinger as he could get. “Looks to me like you’re the one worried about something.”

  Erlinger looked at him. “I’m not worried about anything.”

  “Looks to me like you are. Looks to me like you’re real worried.”

  Erlinger took a step closer to the bars, and in the next instant Nash’s face was full of something hot and slick. He gagged, stumbled backward, and clawed at his face, wiping his eyes clean. He looked at his hands. They were dark red. He knew the coppery smell, too. Blood.

  He looked to his left and saw the old gray-haired man standing beside him with a shiv in his hand.

  Jesus Fucking Christ.

  The old man had shanked Erlinger through the bars of their cell, nailing her in the neck. Erlinger gasped and sputtered on the floor. Calm as fucking Buddha, the old man reached through the bars and grabbed hold of Erlinger’s leg, then pulled the deputy closer. The deputy’s thick glasses slid off of her face and onto the floor as the old man searched her pockets. His hand pulled a keycard free of Erlinger’s clothes. When the old man rose and reached through the bars to swipe the keycard in the lock, Nash could hear him whistling some old-time song.

  “You crazy?” Nash said, even though the answer was pretty obvious. “You just killed a deputy in the middle of the fucking courthouse!”

  The old man whistled louder. He tugged the door, and it opened with a groan of metal. The old man stepped over Erlinger’s twitching body, paused to look down at his work, and then unlocked the other cells, whistling the whole time. The two prisoners in the first cell hooted and cheered. For once, Tuck’s big mouth stayed closed.