The Harry Starke Series: Books 1-3: The Harry Starke Series Boxset Read online

  I opened a bottle of Niersteiner, and we settled down of the sofa in front of the big windows, Amanda’s head on my shoulder. A strong breeze blowing across the surface of the water had turned the river into a living thing, a vast expanse of rippling whitecaps that glittered and glistened in the moonlight.

  I looked down at Amanda; she was fast asleep, her glass still clamped tight in her fingers. I took it gently from her, set it on the coffee table, and lowered her gently onto the cushions. I fetched a blanket, covered her, and then I went to the bedroom, stripped and crawled under the covers. It was four-thirty in the morning when I awoke as she crawled into bed beside me, naked. In less than thirty seconds, she was asleep again.

  The next thing I knew was the buzz of my cell phone on the nightstand. It was eight-thirty, and Jacque wanted to know where the hell I was. I told her I’d be in later, turned off the phone, and then I fulfilled my promise to Amanda.

  Chapter 5

  I finally arrived at my office around eleven that morning: not good, and Jacque let me know it. I hadn’t been seated at my desk for more than a couple of minutes when my office door opened and she stormed in, her face like thunder. She said not a word as she dumped a pile of papers on my desk. I looked up at her and grinned; she didn’t smile back. She simply spun on her heel and flounced back out into the outer office, closing the door behind her. She didn’t exactly slam it, but she could have done it more quietly. Sheesh, the stuff I have to put up with.

  I looked down at the heap of papers. Most of it I knew I could sign off on and send back to Jacque to deal with. There were, however, several phone messages. All of which needed my immediate attention. The most pressing of which were no less than three calls from Kate. What the hell’s up with her?

  I turned on my phone and dialed her cell number; she answered immediately.

  “Damnit, Harry. Where the hell have you been? I’ve called three times.”

  “Yeah, so I heard. I had stuff to take care of. Sorry. What’s so urgent?”

  “You need to get over here. CSI found some personal belongings. They were under the next section of the floor, right next to the body, in fact.”

  “Okay. I have a few things to take care of. Shouldn’t take more than thirty minutes, and then I’ll head on over there.”

  “Good, and turn your damn phone on.”

  “It’s on. I’m talking to you on it....” Damn, she hung up on me. What the hell’s gotten into her, I wonder?

  I never did find out. By the time I arrived at the PD an hour later, she was her usual sunny but caustic self. I followed her to the crime lab where a tech had laid out the few pathetic belongings of what once had been a vibrant teenage girl.

  None of it had weathered the years well. The cut-off jeans (Walmart brand), were filthy, covered in dust. A white T-shirt with the letters UTC on the front was in much the same condition, only now it was a dirty shade of gray. A white bra, also filthy, panties torn almost in half, and a pair of grubby, but obviously expensive, black leather sandals completed the count. To one side, the tech had also laid out the contents of the pockets: a bunch of four keys, a slim leather wallet (empty), some loose change, and that was it.

  “UTC,” I said. “That’s something.”

  “Maybe, maybe not,” Kate said. “Could have been a gift, or borrowed. Still.... Strange mix of clothing; the Walmart jeans and the shoes. They must have cost at least $100. As you said, though, it’s not much.”

  “We have to find out who she was. Can’t do much until we do. I’ll get Tim to do some more digging. In the meantime, we need to run the missing person databases for the period 2003 through 2008. Maybe the two fillings and the broken wrist will throw something up.”

  With Kate watching, the tech bagged the pathetic few personal belongings of our Jane Doe, labeled the bags, and signed off on them; they had been entered into evidence.

  “Let’s get out of here,” she said. “I’ve had enough of the cold, the smell, and the sight of... whoever she was.”

  I looked at my watch. It was almost one o’clock.

  “Kate, I need to go back to the office; see what Tim has for me. You coming?”

  “No. I have a huge backlog, and I need to do some catching up. If you need me, call, and for God’s sake keep your damned phone turned on.”

  I opened my mouth to speak, but she continued, “Look. I don’t mean to be a pain in the ass, and I really don’t give a shit what you do with your time off, or who you do it with, but if I need you, well, I need you. So please, keep it on. See yourself out, okay?”

  She didn’t give me a chance to say anything. She spun on her three-inch heels and walked rapidly away along the corridor, leaving me standing there, staring after her. Geeze, she really is pissed off. Not good.

  Chapter 6

  I drove slowly back to the office, stopping along the way to grab a Max Roast Beef sandwich at Arby’s — I love those curly fries — and a tall iced tea. I didn’t go in. I hit the drive through, and then parked the Maxima off to one side of the Arby’s lot, turned on the radio, and settled down for a quiet moment. It lasted no more than that, a moment, before the Bluetooth cut the radio off.

  “Hey, Mr. Starke. It’s Tim. You got a minute?”

  I sighed. “Yes, Tim. I always have time for you. What do you need?”

  “I have some stuff for you. You know, what you were asking about. The Hill House people, an’ that.”

  “Give me twenty minutes. I should be back in the office by then.”

  “You got it, Boss.” He disconnected and the radio came on again, but I was in no mood to listen to it. I turned it off, hit the starter, drove out of the lot, and headed back to the office; my Max Roast Beef and Curly Fries would have to wait.

  You know, there are times when I get really frustrated. There never seems to be a free moment. There’s always someone wanting my time and attention; first Jacque, then Kate, and now Tim. Damn, Harry. You need some time off, son.

  I thought about that. The problem is, I’m not a loner. I like having people around me. Shit, Harry. That’s a contradiction. No. That’s different. Being at everyone’s beck and call is one thing, good company when you want it, need it, is quite another.

  I was still daydreaming when I pulled into the office lot. The damn gates were wide open. I need to fix that.

  “Jacque,” I said, louder than I probably should have, “the damn gates were left open again. Put a stop to it, okay?”

  Okay, maybe I was a little terse, but what the hell. Do I have to do everything myself?

  I swept through the outer office, pointed at Tim as I went, then at the Keurig, then at my office door, which I flung open and then shut again. I threw my coat onto one of the easy chairs, then myself into my desk chair, and began to pick at the sandwich. The ill mood that had overcome me as I looked at the pathetic little pile of body parts earlier had turned into full-blown despondency. Not good.

  The door opened and Tim came in, grinning like a fool. I opened my mouth to speak, thought better of it, and closed it again. He set the coffee down in front of me and then himself in the chair in front of my desk, his laptop on his knee, and looked at me expectantly.

  “What?” I asked, with an edge to my voice. “You called me, remember?”

  He blanched, looked quickly down at the keyboard, and then up again.

  “I did, and I’m sorry. I didn’t mean....” Oh shit. Damn it, Harry.

  “No, Tim,” I interrupted. “Don’t go there. It isn’t your fault. It’s mine. I’ve had a rough day. I apologize. Now, what have you got for me?”

  He took a deep breath, hit a couple of keys, and began. “Let’s start with—”

  “Wait. I think it would be a good idea if we got Bob and Heather in here. No point going over everything several times.”

  I punched the intercom button on the system phone and had Jacque ask them to join us. Bob, who limped in with the aid of his stick, was his usual brusque self; Heather was... still looking as if she
needed to be home in bed.

  “Heather. Should you even be here?” I asked. “You look like death warmed over.”

  “Gee, thanks, Boss. I needed those few words of encouragement and light. Yes. I feel okay. Head’s a bit stuffed up, but other than that.”

  I looked doubtfully at her. Normally she’s the poster girl for good health. I say girl; she’s thirty-nine, but looks thirty; five feet eight tall, short brown hair, an oval face, brown eyes, and a hard body she keeps well covered. She works out for an hour every morning, teaches self-defense in her spare time, and is an expert shot. She’s also something of a mystery.

  Heather Stillwell has worked for me for almost six years. Before she joined us, she’d spent the first two years of her law enforcement career as a street cop in Atlanta. From there, she was recruited into the GBI (Georgia Bureau of Investigation) and fast tracked for high office, but something happened. She never would talk about it. I’d met her on several occasions during the course of one investigation or another, and we hit it off immediately. No, not like that. The lady is a pro, all cop, and you’d better believe it.

  One day, I got a call from her. She wanted to know if I had any openings. It happened right about the time things were beginning to move for my company. Bob and I were so busy we hadn’t had a day off in months, so I hired her on the spot. To this day, I have no real idea why she left the GBI. I do suspect it was because of a personal relationship. Heather is gay, proud of it and, as far as I know, is not in a relationship now. She and Bob handle all of the field investigations.

  Bob Ryan is my lead investigator. He’s a year older than I am and has been with me almost since the day I first opened the agency. He, too, is an ex-cop – Chicago PD. He’s also an ex-marine, stands six feet two and weighs in at more than 240 pounds – all of it solid muscle. He’s quiet, dedicated, and not someone you want to screw around with.

  I picked up the phone and and asked Mike to bring me a coffee. He did, and I told him to take a seat in the corner and listen. Bob, I knew, was already up to speed with the Hill House investigation, and I knew he would have taken the time to bring Heather into the loop as well.

  “Okay, Tim,” I said, when everyone had gotten settled. “Let’s hear it.”

  “There are two previous owners of interest,” he began. “I’ll do this chronologically. From March 1998 until the end of May 2005, Hill House was occupied by a William Dickerson. Dickerson is a bit of an enigma. He has an arrest record going all the way back to the early 1980s, including six times for procuring and pimping, but he never served any time, for anything. All charges were pled down to misdemeanors. For five of them, he got off with a fine. For the last one in 2008, he was ordered to do 200 hours of community service. Does everyone know the difference between pimping and procuring?”

  All of us ex cops did, but Mike held up his hand and said, “I don’t.”

  Tim looked at me. I nodded. “The quick version, Tim.”

  “Pimping is receiving, either directly or indirectly, a prostitute’s earnings, and that includes the act of asking for or receiving money in exchange for soliciting for a prostitute. Procuring is the practice of procuring a person to be used for, or to travel for, prostitution. It also includes running a brothel, and inducing, encouraging, or forcing someone to engage in or to continue to engage in prostitution. You don’t have to pimp to be guilty of procuring, but the two almost always go hand-in-hand, For example, if someone tries to get a woman to work for him as a prostitute that’s procuring, and if he then shares in her earnings, that’s pimping. Got it?”

  Mike nodded.

  “Alrighty then. In Tennessee, both procuring and pimping are Class E felonies with penalties of one to six years in prison and, or, a fine of up to $3,000. Okay, back to Mr. Dickerson. There’s little doubt that this man is at best shady, and at worst, well... something infinitely worse. Over the years, he’s been connected to a whole nest of nefarious characters, including,” he looked at me, “Salvatore De Luca.”

  “Sal De Luca?” Son of a bitch. I thought I was done with that piece of shit.

  “Yep, him. Here,” Tim said, “I have a photo of Dickerson as he was at his last arrest some seven years ago.”

  He handed large prints to each of us, including Mike. It was a mug shot and, as we all know, they are not the most flattering of portraits. This one ran true to form.

  The head and shoulders image showed him to be five feet eight inches tall. He was white, unshaven, his hair was a wild nest of salt and pepper strands, some of which hung down around his ears, some over eyes that were narrowed almost to slits. The corners of his mouth were turned down in a scowl that was both ugly and scary.

  “Nasty-looking son of a bitch,” Heather said, frowning. “Who’s he running with now, and what’s he been up to lately?”

  “Ah well, you see. That’s what I meant about him being an enigma. He’s still around, but no longer seems to generate interest among any of the law enforcement agencies. He’s been clean for almost seven years, since his last arrest. Maybe you could get Kate to run him through their records, Harry.”

  I nodded and made the call on my cell phone. She picked up immediately. I explained what I needed, and she said she would get back to me as soon as she had something.

  “But what’s he doing?” Heather asked. “He has to be doing something to make a living. What is it?”

  “Well, it seems to be more of the same. He used Hill House as a shelter of sorts, mostly for the homeless, especially girls, but he also took in addicts, mental cases, and so forth. It’s hard to tell exactly what. Anyway, the Victor family lawyers kicked him out when they sold the property. These days, he has a place on Cherry Street. An old, two-story brick building that probably dates to the Civil War era.”

  “That’s interesting,” I said. “We have a dead girl hidden away in what was some sort of homeless shelter, or rehab. She one of the homeless, do you think?” It was a rhetorical question that required no answer; it got none.

  “You can’t run something like that without money,” Bob said. “Who funded it?”

  “Donations,” Tim said. “He would send his inmates — maybe I should call them guests — out on the street panhandling. From what I’ve heard, he also had a small phone room operation that he used for fundraising. He was quite well organized; still is. These days, however, he calls himself Reverend Dickerson and his organization is called... wait for it.... ‘Blessed are the Homeless’.”

  “Oh my God,” Heather said. “Is it legit?”

  “Seems to be. He houses up to twenty-five people at any one time. Has a staff of eight, including cooks and housekeepers.”

  “We need to talk to the Reverend Dickerson,” I said. “Now, Tim, tell us about the Draycotts?”

  “Now that’s a strange one. It’s a similar story, only they are much more upscale. Well, they weren’t then, but they are now. They are also running a shelter. This one is called the Clermont Foundation and it’s quite a sophisticated operation. It’s a 501c3 nonprofit organization, as is the Reverend Dickerson’s little operation. The Draycotts, though, provide, and I quote, ‘emergency shelter, transitional housing, and supportive services to homeless girls’.”

  “Christ,” Bob said. “Are you serious? Homeless girls?”

  Tim nodded. “That I am. They have a large complex off East Brainerd Road: a single large block of living units and communal areas, and four separate quadraplexes on the grounds. It’s a fairly substantial operation. They can handle up to sixty girls.”

  “And both the Draycotts and Dickerson started out in Hill House?” Heather asked.

  “They did, and when Dickerson was thrown out, the Draycotts basically took over his operation, only with much more… how shall I say it? Okay, so theirs is a much more professional enterprise, and there’s no drug rehab involved. They are, after all, both doctors: he’s a family practitioner, she’s a psychiatrist. They are well thought of in the community, and she belongs to several charitable ins
titutions. Oh, and she’s also sixteen years younger than he is; sixty-two to forty-six.”

  “So,” I said, “they’ve been involved in caring for the homeless since 2005, when they bought Hill House?”

  The intercom on my desk buzzed. I picked up.

  “Amanda Cole is here to see you, Mr. Starke.”

  I looked at my watch; it was after three-thirty already. “Okay. Show her in, please, Jacque.”

  “Grab a seat, Amanda,” I said when the door opened. “We were just talking about the history of Hill House, the Dickersons and the Draycotts in particular.”

  “Well, good afternoon to you, too, Harry,” she said, with a grin. “Hello, Heather. Feeling better, I hope. Tim, Bob. Don’t mind me,” she said, pulling up a chair. “Hey, Mike.”

  Mike grinned at her, blushed, and looked stupid. The boy had an enormous crush on her.

  “Go on, Tim,” I said.

  “Well, the Draycotts bought the place for next to nothing, $88,000, in June 2005, but it was in poor shape and in need of major renovations. They did some work on the house, but it seems they were unable to satisfy the code inspectors, and they were outgrowing it. They tried to sell it, but couldn’t. In the end, they simply walked out, abandoned it. They still own it and will have to reimburse the city for the demolition.”

  I looked across the desk at Amanda. “Were you able to find anything?”

  She shrugged, took out an iPad and turned it on. “Not much. There were all sorts of problems during Dickerson’s tenure. The police were called on several occasions, and Dickerson and some of his cronies were arrested and hauled off. There were rumors of sexual and physical abuse, prostitution, complaints by neighbors, and even the residents. It all generated a lot of gossip and ongoing media attention, which led to the Vickers’ family wanting to get rid of the place. And get rid of it they did, in 2005. How the hell they managed to find the Draycotts is unknown, but it can’t be a coincidence that they were in the same line of business. From what I’ve been able to learn, it was an almost seamless turnover from Dickerson to Draycott; they even managed to hang on to some of the residents. Dickerson got away with murder.... Uh oh, wrong choice of words. We don’t know that yet, do we?” She smiled as she said it, but it was obvious where she was going with it.