The Harry Starke Series: Books 1-3: The Harry Starke Series Boxset Page 43

  Lonnie stared down at his notes, shaking his head. “Yeah. I see what you mean.”

  “Well,” I said, “solving a murder, any murder, is totally dependent on our being able to identify the victim. If we can’t identify her, we’ll have a hell of a job figuring out who killed her.”

  “So where do we start?” Lonnie asked.

  “I’d say we need to start with the missing person data bases. Tim’s specialty, right?” Kate asked, and looked at me.

  “Yes. I’ll head back to the office and get him started on it. What are you going to do?”

  “Unfortunately, I have a pile of urgent stuff to work my way through, and so do you, Lonnie. Sorry, Harry. It’s an old case, and we don’t even have an ID on the victim. Same old same old, so I can’t devote much time to this one. I’ve okayed it with Chief Johnston so, for the moment, you’re it. That’s why I called you this morning. You’re a sucker for cold cases, and they don’t come much colder than this. Do you want it?”

  I nodded. “Yeah, well, someone needs to be held accountable, and I get the feeling that if it’s not handled quickly, it will be set aside and forgotten, and that’s not right.” I paused, thinking about the pathetic little pile of blackened bones on Doc Sheddon’s table. I shook my head, trying to rid myself of a whole host of terrible images, but they wouldn’t go.

  “Hell, yeah, I want it,” I said. “Just let me know if CSI finds anything else, yeah? Oh, and if you would, email me a photo of the ring and the necklace. You never know, they might come in handy.”

  “Yeah, I’ll do that, probably later today, before I send them for processing,” she said. “In the meantime, let’s stay in touch, okay?”

  I nodded. “Give us a minute, would you, Lonnie?”

  He ginned, heaved himself out of his seat, and left, closing the door behind him.

  “So,” I said. “What are your plans for tonight?”

  “We’re short-handed. I have to work until midnight. Why?”

  “Oh... I dunno. Thought you might want to... get together, for dinner, maybe.”

  I felt kind of stupid asking, but what the hell. It was worth a shot. It had been more than a month since the last time. We had a strange relationship, Kate and I. Ever since that deal with Olivia Hansen back in January, things had not been the same between us. Oh, we saw plenty of each other, but only on her terms. You ever get the feeling you’re being used? Maybe it’s time I gave it up; let her go.

  She heaved one of those big sighs, shook her head, looked down at the open pad on her desk, scribbled something, and then looked back up at me.

  “Not tonight. I have to be here. Tomorrow, though, maybe. What did you have in mind? Oh no you don’t,” she said as I was about to make a smart remark. “Dinner, or a few drinks. That’s all.”

  I shrugged. “That will work. I’ll book a table at the club. Seven be okay?”

  She nodded.

  “Good. I’ll pick you up. If anything breaks, you know how to reach me.”

  Five minutes later, I was in my car, heading south on Riverside Drive.

  Chapter 4

  I walked into my office that afternoon and remembered that my staff was down by two. My lead investigators were both off: Bob Ryan with a broken ankle and Heather Stillwell was ‘sick.’

  “Jacque,” I said. “What’s wrong with Heather? Can you find out?”

  Jacque Hale is my personal assistant, been with me almost from the beginning, even before she got out of college. She’s Jamaican, though she doesn’t have much of an accent, twenty-seven years old, has a great sense of humor and a wonderful personality. However, she can be a real... well, you know, when things don’t go just exactly as they should.

  “I already know,” she replied. “She has the flu. She came in early, but I sent her home, told her to stay away until she was better.”

  “Well good. I sure as hell don’t need to catch it. What about Bob?”

  “He’ll be back tomorrow: walking wounded, complete with cane.”

  I grinned at that one. Bob with a cane. The man’s a bear. That I have to see.

  I grabbed a cup of dark roast at the Keurig, then turned and walked to where Tim was pounding away on his keyboard.

  “Hey,” I said, laying a gentle hand on his shoulder.

  He almost jumped out of his seat.

  “Sorry, Tim. Didn’t mean to startle you. We need to talk. Grab a coffee and come on into my office. You’ll need to make notes.”

  Tim Clarke is my geeky computer guy. He’s been hacking since he was able to sit up straight; never got caught. Now he’s reformed. At least I think he is. He handles all things to do with the Internet, including operating and maintaining the company website. He also handles background checks and skip searches. He can find people, addresses, phone numbers, you name it. I said he was geeky, and I meant it: he’s tall, skinny, wears glasses, is twenty-five years old and talks a language known only to himself. He’s also the busiest member of my staff.

  I was just about to go looking for him when he came backing in through the door, his hair hanging down over his eyes, a pen between his teeth, and a notepad under his arm. A laptop balanced precariously in the crook of his left arm, and there was an overflowing cup of coffee in his right hand.

  He set the laptop and cup on the edge of my desk, took the pen from his mouth, pulled up a chair, sat down, and grinned.

  I gazed back at him in awe, shook my head, leaned back in my chair, and sipped on my own cup of coffee. “I need to think about getting you some help.”

  “Funny you should say that,” he said. “I know just the right person. She’s—”

  “Oh you do, do you?” I interrupted. “I didn’t say I would. I said I needed to think about it.”

  “Yeah, but she’s—”

  “Forget it, Tim. I’ll talk to Jacque about it, later.”

  “But....” He saw the look in my eye and decided to let it go. “Okay, what do you need, Boss?”

  “They’ve found the body of a young girl under the floor in Hill House.”

  “How old?” He dumped his cup down on my desk, coffee splashing up and over the rim, making a pool around it on the walnut top. Then he slid the laptop toward him. “Ethnicity? How tall? Weight? Distinguishing marks?”

  “Christ, Tim. Calm down, slow down. Do you need a Zanex or something? If you’ll give me time to talk, I’ll give you the details. There are no distinguishing marks; she’s partly mummified and more than half skeleton.” I tried, with a handful of tissues, to keep the mess from running over the edge of the desk and down onto the carpet. Geeze, the boy’s hyper today.

  Oh,” he said, his hands poised like two talons over the keyboard. “So what am I looking for, then?”

  I sat back down, shook my head and glared at him. It didn’t faze him a bit. He just grinned cheekily back at me.

  I sighed. “She’s African-American, aged between sixteen and twenty, five feet six tall. Been dead between eight and twelve years, but it’s hard to tell, so you can add a couple of years on either end.”

  “Tattoos, scars, anything like that?” His fingers were already flying over the keys.

  “No, there’s not enough left of her. She does have a couple of fillings — numbers thirteen and fifteen — and there’s an old scaphoid fracture of the left wrist, and… Stop!”

  He stopped.

  “I didn’t mean for you to do it right now, and especially not here in my office. Just give me your first impressions and then get out of here and let me think, okay?”

  “Sure... yeah... okay then. If she’s local, it shouldn’t be too difficult. Depends on if she was reported missing or not. If she wasn’t.... Well, I’ll do my best.” He started to rise from the chair, then sat down again. “Is that all you have? No clothes? No jewelry? It’s not much, and she’s been dead a long time.”

  I nodded. “Do your best. There’s a ring, a man’s signet ring, and a necklace, but I’m waiting for photos of them. No clothes.”

&nbs
p; “What else?”

  “I need to know about anyone who was associated with Hill House during the five years from 2003 through 2008. That would include the Draycotts, who still own the place, and the Dickersons, who were there until June of 2005. I want names of staff members, family members, with personal details, phone numbers, addresses, everything. Hell, I don’t have to tell you what I want. Now get out of here and get on with it. Let me know as soon as you find anything.”

  He took his gear with him, left the half-empty cup with me, and closed the door behind him.

  Now I was even more depressed. It hadn’t hit me just how little we did have until I’d handed it off to Tim.

  I sat staring up at the Christmas tree, cradling my cup in both hands, thinking about that dismal place where the poor girl had ended her days, laid like a sack of garbage all those years.

  Son of a bitch! How can they do it? How can someone end a life and go on with their own as if... as if... shit, as if the poor kid had never existed. Someone did this. Someone killed her and stuffed her under the boards of that filthy place, among the rats and God only knows what else. Well, you piece of crap, I’m gonna find you, and when I do....

  I was jerked out of it by a knock on the door.

  “Yeah? Come on in.”

  The door opened a crack, and Jacque peeked in. “Amanda Cole is in the outer office. She wants to see you. Shall I send her in?”

  “Yes, send her in. Ask her if she wants coffee.”

  Amanda Cole is one of lights in my life. The other two are Kate Gazzara and Senator Linda Michaels, whom I hadn’t seen in more than a month.

  One of the anchors at Channel 7 Television, Amanda is an inordinately beautiful woman. She wears her strawberry blonde hair bobbed, cut three inches below the point of her chin. Her heart-shaped face is defined by high cheekbones and wide-set, pale green eyes. She’s thirty-two years old and, as far as I know, she’s never been married.

  A couple of years ago, she did an on-air hatchet job on me, calling me a predator and a bounty hunter with the conscience of a grizzly bear. From that point on, I had avoided her. I swore I’d never give her the chance to do it again. Five months ago, I hated the sight of her, much less did I want to spend time with her. Funny how things change. These days, I probably spend more time with her than I should, but her presence is infectious. No, damn it, the woman is addictive.

  Back in August, she’d somehow talked me into letting her work with me on a case and, well, one thing led to another, and here we were.

  She wore her signature, navy blue two-piece business suit with the skirt cut four inches above the knee, and black high heel shoes. Over the suit, she had on a double-breasted, blue and white hounds’ tooth coat. Stunning.

  She waited until the door had closed, then took off the coat and walked around the desk. She hitched up her skirt, straddled me, wrapped her arms around my neck, put her lips on mine and gifted me with a kiss that all but sucked the life out of me. She broke the hold, stepped away from me, walked back around the desk and dropped heavily into the seat that Tim had not long ago vacated.

  “Damn,” she said, looking up at me through half-closed eyes, “I needed that.”

  “Hello, Amanda. Having a good day, are we?”

  “We are now,” she said. “Where are you taking me tonight?”

  “Taking you? I haven’t seen or heard from you in nearly a week and you walk in here and.... Yeah, okay. Where do you want to go?”

  “Hmmm... somewhere nice and quiet. Let me think.... Oh yes, I know. Your place or mine. It doesn’t matter. I need to get laid in the worst way. Oh my God. Now that sounds terrible,” she said, laughing. “Not the worst way, the best way. In fact, any way you want. You up for it?”

  Now she really was laughing, one double etendre after another.

  “Oh, I dunno,” I said, off handedly. “Let me think about it.... Eeh... well, okay.”

  “You shithead,” she laughed. “Come on. Let’s get out of here. We can go to the club. Have a few drinks and a nice early dinner. What do you say?”

  I thought about it for a minute and nodded. “Okay, but I’m gonna pick your brains.”

  “Nooo, Harry. I don’t want to talk shop. I just want to have a nice evening.”

  “And so do I, but this is important, and I think it will interest you, too. There may be... no, I know there will be a story in it for you. Then,” I heaved a sigh as if I was giving in to some unpleasant task, “we can go play.”

  That brought a smile to her lovely face. “Okay, let’s go.”

  Twenty minutes later, we were at the club seated together in the booth overlooking the ninth green. I’d just ordered drinks — a vodka tonic for Amanda and a Blue Moon beer, no slice of orange, for me — when we were interrupted.

  “Hello, you two. Bit early, isn’t it?”

  “Hey, Dad.” I stood up and shook hands with my father.

  My father, August Starke, is a lawyer, a very good one. He specializes in tort, which is a classy word for personal injury. You’ve probably seen him on TV. His ads run on most local stations almost every day; that damn jingle embarrasses the hell out of me, but that’s Dad; he’s a showman, larger than life, and rich as Croesus. He’s an inch taller than I am, with silver hair, not unlike like the Donald’s. He’s fit, toned, with not a pound of extra fat on him anywhere. He was dressed for golf: a black Nike golf shirt, accented by a gold chain around his neck, white Fila slacks, and a pair of white ECCO Evo shoes. He dresses well, does my old dad.

  “Early? Maybe, but who cares? You know Amanda Cole, of course,” I said.

  “I do. How are you, Amanda?”

  “Not so well as you, Colonel. Please, join us for a drink, won’t you?” Colonel? Nobody calls him that anymore.

  “Well... just one then, if that’s all right with you, son.”

  Oh it’s fine with me, but ‘just one’? Come on. That will be a first.

  “Of course,” I said. “What will you have?”

  He had a dry martini; the first of four, but I wasn’t complaining. My father is great company, and I wanted to pick his brains, too.

  We made small talk for a few minutes, mostly about the old man’s golf game — he’s very proud of his five handicap — and then I dragged them both back to reality.

  “What do you know about Hill House?” I threw it out there, hoping one of them would know something. One did.

  “Hill House?” Amanda asked. “You mean that derelict monstrosity on McCallie?”

  “Yeah, that one,” I said.

  My father leaned back in his seat, spinning the stem of his empty martini glass between his fingers, a strange, faraway look on his face.

  “It’s scheduled for demolition,” Amanda said, “so I heard. Why do you ask?”

  “They discovered the body of a young girl there yesterday morning. Kate has the case, among a host of others, and she asked me to see what I could find out. If you hadn’t come by the office, I would have called you anyway.”

  “Well... I’m not sure what I know. It’s been vacant for a long time and is in a terrible state. Wasn’t it a shelter of some sort, a few years ago?”

  “Yes, it was,” I said. “From 2005 until 2008. It’s been vacant ever since. Prior to 2005, it was a rehab of some sort.”

  “That’s right. I remember.” She sat up straight, put her glass down on the table, and then shoved it my direction.

  I took the hint and waved at Joe. He nodded and began to prepare another round of drinks.

  “The rehab was run by a very dubious character... Nicholson... I think his name was, or something similar.” She screwed up her face as she concentrated. If anything, it made her look even more beautiful.

  “Dickerson,” I said. “William Dickerson. Tim’s running a check on him. What the hell do you have on your mind, Dad?” He was staring, unblinking, out of the window.

  “Oh, I was just thinking of times past. I spent several weekends in that house, back in the day when it was
something special. My best friend at the time was James Vickers; his family owned the place. We were at McCallie together. Happy times those. Unfortunately, James was killed during the latter days of the Viet Nam war. Poor Lucy never got over it. She died last year. She was only sixty-two, bless her. Oh well. I’m sorry. Please continue, Amanda.”

  “Dickerson you say his name was, Harry?” She looked at me quizzically, her eyebrows raised.

  I nodded.

  “Well, from what I remember, there was some sort of scandal and the place had to be closed. Sexual abuse of patients, as I recall. I’d have to do a little digging through our archives, but I’m sure I could find it. What do you know about the girl, Harry?”

  Not much. I filled them in on the details. By the time I’d finished, we were all depressed. I signaled Joe and ordered another round of drinks.

  The drinks came and were consumed, for the most part, in silence. I looked at my watch. It was almost seven.

  “You want to join us for dinner?” I asked him.

  He sighed. “No, I don’t think so. I’m sure you two have better things to do than sit around gassing with an old duffer like me.” He tipped up his glass, drained it, set it back on the table, and rose to his feet.

  “Call me tomorrow, Harry. Goodnight, Amanda. It was nice to see you again.” He turned away from the table without waiting for an answer and walked out into the lobby, leaving us staring after him.

  We ordered dinner, but our appetites were not what they had been a couple of hours earlier, at least mine wasn’t. I didn’t enjoy my steak and I left most of it. Amanda? Well, appetite or not, she managed to down a ten-ounce fillet with red potatoes and asparagus.

  We left the club a little before ten o’clock. I drove Amanda’s Lexus back to my place. I’d left my car back at the office on Georgia, and neither of us was in a fit state to go get it. Be that as it may, we arrived at my home on Lakeshore Lane safely, and to both of our reliefs. I sure as hell didn’t need a DUI on my record, and neither did Amanda.