Licensed to Thrill: Volume 1

by Diane Capri

  Roscoe said, “There’s full audio, but these guys didn’t say much and they were careful not to speak loud enough for the microphones. We’ve punched the sound, which distorts the quality.”

  “So they were familiar with the limits of your equipment,” Gaspar said.

  “That’s my guess,” Roscoe said.

  Kim asked, “Can we get the full video? Maybe our people can apply some forensics you don’t have access to.”

  Roscoe nodded. “We sent it to the FBI Atlanta Field Office early this morning. But I’ll have Brent get you a copy when we’re done here.”

  They watched in silence for six minutes, straight through.

  Kim saw the date on the tape was November 2.

  Initial entry time was 12:01 a.m.

  After which: Two men come in. They have a brief chat with the desk sergeant. Not Brent after all. Kim was glad. And she wondered now what he was so worried about since he wasn’t at fault.

  The fake Marshal hands over a folded paper. The desk sergeant makes a phone call at 12:06 a.m. lasting less than one minute. Another brief chat at the desk. The sergeant makes another phone call at 12:11 a.m. lasting less than one minute. He shakes his head. A briefer chat follows. The sergeant puts the paper on the desk and walks to Sylvia’s cell. Sylvia is sitting as she had been in her own kitchen that day, hunched over, head down, forearms resting on her thighs, fingers pressing together rhythmically in sequence.

  Sylvia looks up when the sergeant unlocks the cell. She stands, hands in front. He cuffs her, holds her right bicep, and walks her to the front. He presents her to the Marshal, who grabs her left bicep.

  Sylvia and the two men walk out through the front door.

  Outside, all three get in the Chevy Kim and Gaspar had seen on the Interstate median. The one with the dead body in it. The one Roscoe called Shorty, still alive at that point, is driving. The fake Marshal is sitting in the navigator seat. Sylvia is in back.

  The car drives out of frame at 12:33 a.m.

  Roscoe said, “Recognize them?”

  Kim shook her head once. Negative. Like Roscoe, Kim knew only who the guys were not.

  “Roll it again,” Gaspar said. “We’ve got questions.”

  Roscoe pressed replay without taking her focus off the screen.

  Kim studied details this time.

  Two men stood outside, pressed the call button, waited for the door to unlock, entered the station, and approached the desk. The shorter one was dressed in a dark business suit and tie. He carried a briefcase.

  He looked familiar.

  The taller one was wearing a U.S. Marshal uniform, complete with hat and equipment belt. Hat shadowed his face; uniform enveloped his body. Nothing visible enough to identify.

  Both men wore leather gloves.

  It was November.

  Costumes.

  Meant to convey normalcy and conceal reality. Well done.

  The desk sergeant was the other guy Kim had seen with Brent at Sylvia’s home yesterday.

  “Who is that?” she asked.

  “Officer Frank Kraft.”

  “He’s new?”

  Roscoe didn’t look up. She must have seen the video a hundred times already, but she remained focused. “About a month, I guess.”

  “Break any rules about buzzing visitors in here at night?” Gaspar asked.

  “Federal officers pretty much come and go as they please around here,” Roscoe said.

  Touchy, like small-town cops everywhere.

  The shorter guy, was the first to speak. His voice was husky in an abnormal way.

  “Sergeant,” he had said, “I’m L. Mark Newton, attorney for Sylvia Black.” He handed Kraft a business card. “This is Marshal Wright.”

  Kim registered the words. They seemed rehearsed. Had she heard the voice before? A tenor. Midwestern. Maybe.

  The second guy also presented a business card to Kraft, but said nothing.

  Kraft looked the cards over and placed them on the desk.

  “What can I do for you?” Kraft asked. Deep baritone with a lisp.

  “We have a federal court order for Sylvia Black,” Shorty said. “We’re here to collect her.”

  Marshal Wright reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a tri-folded white paper. No envelope. He handed the paper to Kraft. Kraft opened the paper and read it.

  “I didn’t know Mrs. Black was being released tonight,” Kraft said. Was there any surprise in his tone? “I’ll need to check with my Chief.”

  Shorty said, “There’s nothing to check. It’s all there in black and white.”

  The Marshal said, “We have to get her to Chicago by 3:30 a.m. We miss that flight in Atlanta, we’ll all be in a world of trouble, you know?”

  Kraft nodded. “Sure. I understand. It’ll only take a minute.” He picked up the phone and placed the first call. At 12:06 a.m.

  Gaspar asked Roscoe, “Did he actually call you?”

  She said, “What the hell do you think?”

  Gaspar said, “I think he tried and didn’t get you. Why not?”

  “I was involved in something else at the time.”

  Gaspar didn’t press her. Good. There would be a time for that, but not now.

  Kraft hadn’t left a message. He had said, “I’ll need to call again.”

  And the short man had gotten a little nasty at that point, while keeping his voice down. Kim recognized the trick. She’d seen it before. Very effective for confounding voice identification. The end of his sentence was: “If your Chief has any questions, she can call us. Remind her that Federal judges can’t be challenged on matters of national security.”

  Kraft nodded, as if the statement was as obvious as wet water. Still, to his credit, he made the second call. Same result.

  Gaspar didn’t ask Roscoe why she failed to pick up the second time. Nor did Kim mention that Shorty was flat wrong on the law and Kraft should have known better.

  On the tape Shorty looked at his watch and spoke again. Insistent words, nastier tone, but still controlled. Definitely rehearsed. He said, “We can take you into custody, too, son. Anybody here with you?”

  Kraft said, “No. Just me.”

  Gaspar actually groaned. Roscoe shot him a withering stare.

  Shorty’s practiced coercion got heavier. “You don’t want to leave your station unattended, do you?”

  Now Kraft seemed unsure, and worried.

  Shorty changed his tactics to the reasonable approach. “Look, officer, you have our cards and our numbers. You have the order. Your chief can follow up when you reach her. What’s the problem?”

  Kraft wavered, undecided. Body language conflicted, but leaning toward refusal.

  The Marshal broke the deadlock. He stood tall and conveyed a simultaneously threatening and brothers-in-arms posture. “We’re on a deadline, officer. We can’t wait until your chief gets her shuteye. Shall we take Mrs. Black alone, or do you want to come along? Either way is fine with me.”

  Kraft spent four more seconds thinking it over before he said, “I guess I’d better stay here.”

  The Marshal pulled his handcuffs off his equipment belt and held them out. “Do you want me to come with you?”

  Kraft said, “I can handle it.”

  He snagged the cuffs, left the desk, and headed toward Sylvia’s cell.

  Kim asked, “Any conversation between these two while Kraft is gone on the full recording?”

  “None at all,” Roscoe replied.

  Kraft walked into the cell block. He pressed the release button on the wall and Sylvia’s door popped open. She looked up, faced the camera, and flashed her model’s smile.

  “Time to go, Sylvia,” Kraft said. Sylvia stood up, smoothed her clothes, patted her hair to be sure it remained in place.

  Gaspar asked, “These two know each other?”

  Roscoe replied, “Of course.”

  Kraft said, “I have to put the cuffs on.”

  Sylvia held her hands out in front, palms toget
her. Kraft put the cuffs on her wrists. They walked together out of her cell.

  Sylvia showed no surprise.

  And she asked no questions.

  “Did you edit any of Sylvia’s responses?” Kim asked.

  Roscoe met Kim’s gaze for the first time since the video began.

  She said, “No.”

  “She expected this, then.”

  “That’s how I figure it,” Roscoe said.

  On the tape Kraft walked Sylvia back to the desk in silence and handed off his prisoner to the Marshal. Sylvia’s face lit up. The Marshal’s answering expression remained concealed by his hat. He took Sylvia’s left arm without comment.

  Shorty said, “Again, sergeant, have your chief call us if she has any questions. We’ll be out of touch, off and on, until we land at O’Hare. After that, we’ll be continuously available.”

  Kraft was clearly unhappy, but he said, “OK.”

  Hat on, head down, the Marshal led Sylvia toward the exit. He pressed on the door with his forearm, but it didn’t open.

  Shorty, five steps behind, turned back to Kraft and said his last words, “Can you buzz us out?”

  Kraft returned to his desk and pressed the lock release.

  The Marshal’s gloved hand pushed the glass door open. He herded Sylvia through the gap. Shorty followed.

  The green Chevy was parked at the curb, engine running. The Marshal opened the sedan’s back door. Sylvia looked back at the station and raised her cuffed hands and waved. Then she ducked into the back seat. The Marshal reached into his pocket and pulled something out. He handed it to Sylvia and closed her door. He turned away and got into the Chevy’s front passenger seat without showing his face to the station’s outdoor cameras.

  Taking probably his last steps, too, Shorty walked around the trunk and got into the driver’s seat.

  The car pulled away from the station at 12:33 a.m.

  Kim figured they felt elated at first. Maybe at 12:34 a.m. they were whooping it up inside the Chevy, with a bigger celebration planned for later. When they reached their destination. Which was probably not Atlanta and most certainly not Chicago.

  They’d have reached the cloverleaf between ten and fourteen minutes later. Say three minutes to pull the car off to the side of the road, intending to switch to a replacement vehicle. No reason to park there otherwise.

  Shoot the short guy in the head, get out of the Chevy, raise the hood, get into the second vehicle, and leave the scene.

  Maybe five minutes.

  Which put Shorty’s time of death between eighteen and twenty-two minutes after the video ended.

  Call it 12:51 a.m. to 12:55 a.m.

  Almost exactly the time Finlay should have shown up in the JFK Hudson Hotel.

  But hadn’t.

  Which, of course, the boss already knew.

  Chapter Twenty Two

  Margrave, Georgia

  November 2

  11:54 a.m.

  THE RECORDING ENDED FOR THE SECOND TIME and Roscoe waited for a reaction. She didn’t get one. So she stood up and patted her equipment belt to confirm all her stuff was there, and she grabbed her car keys, and she moved toward the door.

  At the threshold she turned back to Kim and Gaspar, both still seated.

  She asked, “Are you coming?”

  Kim looked at Gaspar, felt the fatigue in her bones and saw his exhaustion. She knew what he was thinking. Why go back out there? He’d already seen the body; she’d already seen the car. They could get full reports later. No need to traipse around in the weeds again. What they both needed was sleep. Decent food. Time to figure this thing out. Before they made a mistake they couldn’t fix.

  All of which would have to wait, Kim realized. She said, “We’ll follow in our own car. We’ll be there in twenty.”

  Roscoe said, “No, you’ll ride with me. We’ll talk on the way.”

  She left the room before either Kim or Gaspar could protest.

  “So, Boss Lady, do we obey?” Gaspar asked. He stood, yawned, stretched. Eased his pain. He wasn’t fooling her. His leg, and his side. He’d been sitting too long. He had to be hurting.

  “Apparently there’s more than one boss lady here,” Kim said. “And you heard her. So move your ass.” She put a smile on her face. And in her voice. She was Number One. It was up to her to set the tone. Admitting exhaustion wasn’t the way to start. Or defeat. She walked out, following Roscoe, Gaspar behind her for once.

  Gaspar said, “I don’t suppose we could stop at Eno’s Diner on the way? For pancakes and country ham?”

  “I’m guessing not.”

  “In that case, wait up.” He ducked into the break room and came back out carrying two donuts.

  “For me?” Kim asked, and grabbed one from his hand before he could stop her. “You shouldn’t have.”

  “I didn’t,” he said.

  Roscoe was waiting at her reserved parking space, next to her navy Town Car. She got in and started the engine. Kim took the navigator’s position, leaving the back seat for Gaspar. She fastened her seat belt and used her right hand to hold the shoulder harness away from her neck.

  Roscoe drove with the precise assurance of a woman who knew every chink in the local asphalt. She used her bubble light, but no siren. Other vehicles moved respectfully aside and she left them in her wake. She covered half the distance without speaking. Kim waited. Gaspar waited, too, for once.

  Then seven miles from the cloverleaf, Roscoe asked, “What time did you find the body?”

  Kim said nothing.

  Gaspar said, “What?”

  “No more games,” Roscoe said. Her tone was level and determined. She lifted off the accelerator and the big car slowed. “You must take me for a complete moron.”

  “I wish you were a moron,” Kim said. “You’d be easier to handle.”

  Roscoe glanced at Gaspar in the rear view mirror. “We all know Harry Black wasn’t shot two hours before Sylvia called 911. Plenty of time for you to clean up that crime scene, too. Good job, by the way. We didn’t find much.”

  Gaspar said, “You’re on the wrong track, chief. We don’t know anything about Harry Black. We saw his body for the first time when you did.” He raised his right hand, palm out, first two fingers up, last two held down by his thumb. “Scout’s honor.”

  “Oh, please,” Roscoe said. “You wouldn’t know a boy scout if he ran up and bit you on the leg.”

  “Wrong,” Gaspar said. “I was a boy scout. An Eagle Scout, to be exact. Matter of public record. Check it out if you don’t believe me.”

  Roscoe slowed the car to a crawl and then stopped on the shoulder of the county road. Miles of emptiness stretched in all directions. She put the transmission in park, unbuckled her shoulder harness, and turned toward her captured prey.

  What is she up to?

  Gaspar yawned, stretched, lay down on the cushy bench and closed his eyes. “Wake me up when we get there.”

  Within seconds he was breathing evenly and his face was relaxed. Kim thought he’d actually fallen asleep. Maybe he was fresh out of amphetamines. Maybe they were what he kept pulling out of his pocket and sticking in his mouth when he thought she wouldn’t notice.

  “Now what?” Kim asked Roscoe. “Are we going to the crime scene, or did you have something else in mind?”

  Roscoe said, “We’ll continue on our way as soon as you tell me what you know.”

  Kim shrugged. Tried a new tactic. “OK, I’ll play along, Beverly. I’m guessing Jack Reacher killed Harry Black and cleaned up the mess, and the tall guy impersonating the U.S. Marshal on your video tape was Jack Reacher, too. We already called it in. It won’t help you to shoot us.”

  Roscoe’s mouth fell open. Kind of comical really, Kim thought. She watched until Roscoe realized where her jaw bone was and clamped her mouth shut, holding her lips in a stiff line.

  Kim poked her again. “Oh, come on. It’s got to be him. That’s what Reacher does, right? Rescues damsels in distress? Sleeps wit
h them? Saves their lives?”

  A red flush crept up Roscoe’s neck and over her face. “So that’s the way it’s going to be?” Then her cell phone rang. She answered and listened and said, “Can he wait ten minutes? I can be there in five, and I need five to look. Tell him I appreciate it.”

  She ended the call and buckled up again and pulled the heavy slow Town Car onto the road.

  “Don’t think we’re finished this conversation, Agent Otto,” she said. She put the bubble light on top of the car this time and turned on the siren before she hit the gas. The big Lincoln accelerated faster than Kim expected. Gaspar didn’t sit up. Maybe he really had fallen asleep, as unlikely as that seemed. The ride was smooth and quiet. Even at high speeds it felt like they were gliding over the bumpy old road wearing ear muffs.

  Roscoe said, “They’ve got to move the body. Crowd control is becoming a problem. They’ve closed the interstate both ways and there’s four miles of traffic already. Two fender benders so far and more to come if they don’t get unsnarled before rush hour. Coroner’s arrived and he’s got another case after this one.” Roscoe covered the remaining miles to the cloverleaf in less than four minutes and then slowed half a mile out. She didn’t know the Chevy’s precise location. Kim could have helped with that, but she didn’t. Fifteen hundred feet from the east side of the cloverleaf, Roscoe slowed to a crawl, searching for the best place to park amid the official vehicles already present.

  A rainbow of pulsing hazard lights were flashing in uncoordinated rhythms. Interstate traffic was backed up as far as Kim could see in both directions. GHP cruisers were blocking entrances and exits at each point of the cloverleaf. Officers were directing vehicles to move along instead of gawking, but drivers weren’t complying.

  Kim counted two fire department vehicles, a truck and a paramedic bus, and three GHP vans with “Crime Scene Technicians” stenciled on their sides, and two tow trucks, and an unmarked black sedan which must have belonged to the coroner. Three Crime Scene techs were working on the car. They had the trunk open, and they had cameras and markers and other equipment running. Then two techs left and walked back to their van while the third waited to document the body’s removal. Most of the remaining work would be done when they examined the car later.