Runaway Justice (David Adams)

by Chad Zunker

  “Where did you get his file?”

  “Doc gave me a copy. I like him. He’s a cool cat.”

  “Then I guess you don’t despise all homeless people, Jess.”

  “Doc? Seriously?”

  David nodded. “He hit a rough stretch ten years ago, lost everything, and it’s taken him a long time to finally get back on his feet. Believe it or not, the streets are filled with a lot of bad-luck guys just like him.”

  “Yeah, well, the streets are also filled with violent wackos.”

  “Some,” he admitted.

  “So, what can I do to help you with Parker?” Jess asked. “I kind of like the thought of kicking Harry Zegers’s ass on this thing.”

  “Do you think you can get me a copy of the video he showed me? I want to examine it more closely.”

  “Yep. That’s why you’re paying me the big bucks.”

  EIGHT

  Special Agent Harry Zegers was nearing his ten-year anniversary with the FBI but had felt stuck in the mud for the last three years—ever since he’d been placed on probation for using excessive force with a potential suspect. After breaking a lowlife weasel’s nose in an outburst of anger, Zegers had gotten benched and seen countless job promotions come and go without hearing his name called. At thirty-seven, Zegers had fully expected to have moved up the FBI ranks by now. He thought he’d already be living in DC, where he’d be supervising terrorist investigations, or traveling to foreign lands on matters of national security.

  While admittedly not as book smart or as educated as some of his colleagues—Zegers didn’t have an Ivy League degree like a few of them—he was more hardworking and driven than most. So he was beyond frustrated that he’d stalled out at the FBI’s Austin office, where he’d been heading up a long list of mindless investigations the past few years that were never going to get him noticed by anyone that mattered.

  All had seemed bleak for him—until five days ago.

  That’s when the key witness for a federal fraud case had turned up dead. The case itself wasn’t exactly high profile or demanding of national media attention. But Mark Anderson, the assistant US attorney handling it, was even more ambitious than Zegers. Anderson had managed to conjure up some local media coverage over the past few months and seemed to be enjoying his time smiling for the cameras. The guy clearly had big career aspirations. However, with his key witness gone, Anderson was now desperate to keep his case from completely unraveling. He was damn near begging Zegers to dig up some answers for him quickly to get his trial back on track. He had even promised to get the FBI agent noticed in the right circles. Because of that, Zegers had been working nonstop on the case. He’d barely slept in four days and was driving his guys hard. This was his chance finally to put the probation behind him and move forward in his career.

  Zegers sat in a corner booth at Kerbey Lane Cafe, waiting for Anderson to join him for a late lunch. A half-eaten cheeseburger sat on the table. Wearing a black sport coat and slacks, Zegers had his eyes on a set of reports in his hands. He ran a hand through his thick black hair while holding a report farther away from his eyes. He needed to start wearing reading glasses but thought they made him look weak. He was only in his late thirties, after all. Zegers couldn’t afford to look weak right now. That’s why he still hit the gym and pumped weights almost every day—a workout schedule that had become easier to manage six months ago after his ex-wife, Lisa, gained full custody of their fourteen-year-old son, Josh. The judge had agreed with her that Zegers’s continued fits of anger and irrational behavior posed an ongoing threat to his job status, which, of course, would impact his ability to properly care for his son.

  Zegers was still pissed. And even more determined to get a promotion now to prove both the judge and Lisa dead wrong. They’d married as kids while at Auburn. Lisa was an aspiring fashion designer. Zegers thought he was destined to make it to the major leagues as a second baseman. He had both the athletic ability and the good looks to attract potential endorsement deals. He’d gotten as far as Double-A ball before leading the league in strikeouts in back-to-back years because he couldn’t hit the damn slider. Teams basically gave up on him after that. The disappointment led to anger, which led to drinking. They’d barely survived that first round of marriage turmoil. Lisa hung in there because of their son, who was four at the time. Zegers finally pulled it together and went the law enforcement route by joining the FBI. Life was good for a little while, as he easily got promoted. But when he lost steam three years ago, the drinking started again, and so did all the fighting. He couldn’t really blame Lisa for wanting out. He could be a stubborn ass. But he missed her. And he missed the hell out of Josh, who didn’t seem to be all that interested in a relationship with his father at the moment.

  Mark Anderson finally arrived. The federal prosecutor was tall and skinny with brown hair that was already thinning, even though he was probably five years younger than Zegers. Word on the street was that the attorney was wicked smart. Zegers knew Anderson had gotten his undergrad at Duke and his law degree from Harvard. His father was some kind of big-deal lobbyist in DC. Anderson also was the current golden child of Jim Dozier, the US attorney for the Western District of Texas. His future was bright, which was why Zegers was eager to hitch a ride with him.

  Taking off his gray suit jacket, Anderson slid into the booth. “Please tell me you have something for me, Harry. What did the boy say?”

  Zegers had given Anderson a heads-up earlier that they’d finally found the mystery boy in the security video and were on their way to speak with him. It had been the only positive lead they’d had on this case so far.

  “Ran into problems,” Zegers admitted.

  “What kind of problems?”

  “The kid has a damn lawyer.”

  “So what? Work with the lawyer.”

  “I tried. The lawyer is an ass.”

  Anderson sighed. “What did you do, Harry?”

  “Nothing. He wouldn’t let the boy talk to me. So I told him I’d get a grand jury subpoena and make him talk.”

  “Please tell me you didn’t actually say that.”

  “Why? Can’t you get the subpoena? The boy is the same as in the video. We know it’s him. We know he was there when Legley was killed. Let’s make him talk.”

  Anderson cursed, shook his head. “No grand jury is going to force a kid to testify based on a video showing him near the vicinity where Legley was shot. I would need something much more concrete connecting the kid to the actual crime scene. I can’t believe you threatened the lawyer with that. You should’ve handled the whole thing with velvet gloves and not boxing gloves.”

  “Well, velvet gloves aren’t my style.”

  “And look where that got you.”

  Zegers exhaled in frustration. He knew Anderson was right. He’d made a stupid tactical error. “I’ll keep working on the attorney.”

  “You’d better. We’re running out of time here. I’m going to have to drop this whole damn case if you can’t turn up any answers soon. That won’t be good for either one of our careers.”

  “We’re not sitting around on our asses, okay? We’re out there hustling.”

  “Yeah, I hear ya. But Dozier is all over me right now. He blames me for not making sure Legley was better protected.”

  “He’s not wrong, you know.”

  “I guess. But I just never believed one of these guys was capable of cold-blooded murder. Hell, they’re just two rich suburban white guys who didn’t pay their damn taxes. Not mobsters.”

  “We still have no proof yet that Kingston is behind it.”

  “Don’t remind me. But we all know he did it. There has to be something we’re missing. Have you interrogated him again?”

  “Three different times. His story has remained consistent.”

  “He’s going to crack eventually.”

  “Maybe. But I can’t waterboard him to make it happen, okay?”

  “That’s too bad. It would make this a whole lot easie
r.”

  Zegers shook his head, took a bite of his cheeseburger. Anderson was correct that Kingston was the clear suspect in the death of his former business partner. The man was facing a minimum of five years in prison. After her husband’s death four days ago, Christina Legley had told the FBI that her husband was growing concerned that Kingston might try to do something drastic. She said her husband told her Kingston had once before talked about hiring someone to “take out” a problem when one of their restaurant managers had threatened to sue them over harassment. At the time, Legley had thought he was joking, but his former business partner had insisted he wasn’t and that he knew a guy who would do the job for a price.

  The night that Legley died, Kingston was at a banquet surrounded by dozens of witnesses. According to Christina Legley, her husband had gotten a phone call around nine thirty the night of his death. He told her he had to run out and take care of something. He got into his Cadillac Escalade and drove away. He never came home. Zegers had discovered the call had originated from a burner phone purchased with cash earlier that day at a store with no security cameras. The trail had gone cold from there.

  His cell phone buzzed in his pants pocket. Zegers checked the display. It was Agent Farley, his top lieutenant.

  “What’s up?” Zegers answered.

  “Where are you?”

  “Lunch. Why?”

  “We found the boy’s backpack.”

  Zegers raced back to the office, where Farley was waiting for him inside a small conference room. At first appearance, Farley didn’t seem like much. He was only five-seven with a slender build, a crew cut of blond hair, pale skin, and a boyish face. Farley looked like he might have just graduated from high school. But his looks were deceiving. A former All-American wrestler at Iowa, Farley was as tough as they came. Zegers had seen him take down two perps all by himself. He was also very loyal to Zegers. There had been several incidents where Zegers had crossed the line out in the field, and Farley had not reported anything to his superiors.

  A dirty black backpack sat on top of the table with its contents spread out. Earlier that day, Zegers had ordered a crew to search the entire area around the location where Parker Barnes had been arrested for stealing purses the night before in hopes of finding this very item. The boy didn’t have the backpack when police caught him.

  It was a long shot that had actually paid off.

  “Where was it?” he asked Farley.

  “Hidden in the bushes behind Shady Grove.”

  Zegers nodded. Shady Grove was one of many restaurants that sat along Barton Springs Road.

  “How do you know it’s his?” he asked.

  Wearing latex gloves, Farley picked up a small photo off the table and held it up for Zegers to view. A boy who was clearly a younger version of Parker Barnes was standing next to a man who was probably his father. Both of them were smiling big. It looked like they were at an amusement park together. For the first time, Zegers felt a little sad for the boy. Although Zegers had had a rocky relationship with his own father growing up, he couldn’t have imagined losing him at such a young age. But he also couldn’t let these feelings distract him from the mission at hand. Right now, the boy might be critical to solving this case. Which was critical to advancing his own broken career and earning back partial custody of his son.

  Zegers quickly pulled on his own latex gloves and began picking through the backpack’s items—which had all been inserted into clear, resealable bags. A stick of deodorant, hand sanitizer, toothbrush, and toothpaste. A worn paperback copy of Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone. Black headphones but no devices to plug them into. Three packages of granola bars and two small packages of Skittles. A small bottle half filled with water. Several pens and a spiral-bound notebook mostly filled with drawings of comic-book-type characters. Three pairs of stained white socks. Two pairs of tighty-whities. Blue gym shorts. A red hooded sweatshirt. A black T-shirt with the Houston Rockets logo. A plain white T-shirt. A gray T-shirt. That was about it.

  Zegers stared at the bags with the T-shirts. “What color was the shirt the kid was wearing in the video?”

  “Gray, I think,” Farley said.

  Zegers picked up the bag with the gray T-shirt and pulled it out to examine it more closely. It was dirt stained all over, with a hole in the shoulder. On the very front was a red circular stain about the size of a small fist. Zegers held it up close to his eyes, and a small smile crossed his lips.

  “Is that a bloodstain?” Farley asked.

  “Could be. Get this to the lab ASAP. Let’s see if we got a match for the victim.”

  NINE

  Richie Maylor stood alone on the banks of the Colorado River, smoking a cigarette. At twenty-six, Richie had accomplished very little in life—unless anyone counted his growing list of misdemeanors, plus the second-degree felony assault that had left him sitting in a prison cell for eighteen months. He’d just recently lost his part-time job driving a forklift over at a junkyard. The constant drinking and his short temper had made it hard for any business owner to put up with him for too long. So he’d been doing odd jobs here and there to make just enough cash to keep up with rent on his dump of an RV trailer parked a mile up the road. Most of the jobs involved chasing down idiots who owed his boss money.

  However, Richie’s latest assignment was much bigger than that. His boss had offered to pay him a significant cash bonus—hell, enough to pay off his trailer and maybe even put new wheels on his truck. Everything had gone as planned until that damn kid had shown up out of nowhere. Had the boy seen the whole thing? Did the boy overhear anything Richie had said to the guy? Richie had stupidly run his mouth a bit, even mentioning his boss by name, before pulling the trigger. He couldn’t be sure what the kid had heard. And he hadn’t been fast enough to catch that stupid kid and find out. Now he was sitting in hot water because of it. His boss was not a happy man.

  Richie cursed at that thought, which had kept him from sleeping well the past few nights. He finished his cigarette, flicked it away, and quickly lit up another. Richie turned when his boss walked down a dirt trail to meet him a few minutes later. In his fifties, his boss was trim, clean-shaven, with a head of thick, wavy brown hair. Wearing a tan suit and white dress shirt without a tie, his boss had the good looks of an aging movie star. He was always dressed in nice suits and driving expensive cars. Under any other circumstances, Richie would not be intimidated by the man. After all, Richie was stacked with lean muscles from a childhood mostly spent baling hay every day for his abusive stepdad. Richie had even survived attacks by prison gangs. But he knew his boss was someone to be feared. Richie had heard his boss was connected to a local criminal network that ran an underground gambling ring. There were rumors that his boss had even had someone killed a couple of years ago for betraying him.

  Richie had never really believed that rumor—until a few days ago.

  He swallowed the lump in his throat as his boss made his way over to him. For a second, the man didn’t say anything. Instead, he pulled his own cigarette from a carton, lit it with a lighter, and started puffing while staring at the river. The silence made Richie shift awkwardly. His boss had ordered him to remain completely off the radar for the past five days. So that’s exactly what Richie had done—until his boss had texted him today and told him to meet here. Richie knew that if his boss had hired him to do what he’d done five days ago, the man could just as easily have paid someone else to do the same to him. He’d already threatened it repeatedly because of what his boss had called a massive screw-up. Richie wondered if one of his boss’s thugs was somewhere nearby. Because of this fear, Richie had his gun buried in the back of his jeans beneath his denim jacket.

  “I might have just saved your ass,” his boss finally said in between puffs. “And gotten you a second chance to make things right.”

  Richie exhaled, grateful to not have to try to shoot his way out of a sticky situation this morning. “How’s that?”

  His boss pulled h
is phone from a pocket inside his suit jacket, brought up a photo on the screen, and held it out in front of Richie. “This him? This the boy?”

  Richie stared at the photo, which was a booking shot of a boy with unkempt brown hair wearing an orange juvie jumpsuit. It was definitely the same kid. He’d gotten a clear look at him in the bright glow of his truck headlights. Right before the boy had taken off like a rocket.

  “That’s him, boss. Where is he?”

  “He got picked up for theft last night and taken over to the juvenile justice center on South Congress.”

  Richie knew the place well. He’d had his own brief stay there as a teenager after stealing a truck from his ex-girlfriend’s brother. He would have rather remained there in juvie than to have been picked up by his angry stepdad, who then proceeded to beat him with his leather belt until Richie could barely walk. The old man had liver cancer now, and Richie couldn’t wait for him to die. His stepdad always had treated his mom like a slave. Richie used to lie in bed at night as a kid and fantasize about grabbing a hammer, sneaking into his stepdad’s bedroom, and bludgeoning him. But he never had the courage to do anything. Plus, he couldn’t handle the thought of breaking his mom’s heart. Somehow, she still loved that abuser.

  His boss continued. “Judge released him to a midtown youth center today.”

  “What do you want me to do?” Richie asked.

  “What the hell do you think?”

  “I’ll take care of it, boss.”

  “Good. Because if that boy somehow blows this up for all of us, you might as well take that gun you have hidden in the back of your pants, put it to your own head, and pull the damn trigger.”

  TEN

  Parker spent the afternoon following Keith around the Hand-Up Home. The director seemed to be going over the top to make sure he felt welcome and comfortable. Parker didn’t mind it. Whenever he’d been dumped into other foster facilities, they’d usually just thrown him into the mix and somehow expected him to easily adapt. That rarely happened. Not because Parker was incapable. But there was always a pecking order among the kids at these places. And the boys who ran the show usually tried to make sure right away that any new kids fell in line. He knew that day would soon arrive here. But it was nice for Parker to not have to immediately start watching his back.