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

  “The same as we’re doing here. We provide shelter, along with medical and spiritual support for the homeless....”

  He was interrupted by a knock at the door.

  “Come in, Darius.”

  The door opened and a man walked in. He was black, handsome, about six feet tall, well-built, about thirty years old. His narrow face was accented by a thin mustache and a small goatee; his hair was cropped close. He was wearing a dark gray hoodie, jeans and Air Jordans.

  “This is one of my assistants, Darius Willett,” Dickerson said. “He helps to keep order around here. Sit down, Darius.”

  He did. He flopped down next to Dickerson, slouched, his long legs stretched out in front of him, his elbows on the arms of the chair, and fingers steepled together. He glared at me over the top of them.

  I looked at Bob. He’d caught it, too, and he gave me a slight nod. I was not the only one to notice the bulge under Willett’s hoodie; the man was carrying. Time for shock and awe, I think. Set the tone for the interview.

  I put my hands on the arms of the chair, pushed up onto my feet, and took a step forward. He didn’t even see it coming. I swept my hand up under my jacket, pulled the M&P9, and jammed it up under his nose. It happened so quickly he took an involuntary gulp of air, threw his arms in the air, and jerked his head back against the chair. Geeze, don’t his nose look funny all scrunched up like that?

  It was a serious moment, and the stupid thought was uncalled for, but hey, that’s me.

  “What the hell?” Dickerson yelled, as he jumped to his feet.

  “Sit down and stay calm, both of you,” I said, reaching up under Willett’s hoodie and relieving him of the .45 Colt M1911 semi-automatic.

  I stepped back, holstered the nine, ejected the clip from the .45, worked the action, and ejected the cartridge from the chamber, stripped the clip, and threw the shells into a flowerpot on the table. The gun had been loaded with hollow-points; nasty. I tossed the firearm onto Willett’s lap. The heavy weapon landed hard on his package, causing him to gasp.

  “Now, Mr... oh, sorry. That should be Reverend Dickerson,” I said, as I returned to my seat. “I feel a little more comfortable knowing I’m not going to have to kill your boy; at least I hope I’m not.”

  I looked sideways at Bob; he was smiling, but there was no humor in it. His own jacket was open, revealing the Glock .380 on his belt.

  Darius Willett was now sitting upright, holding the empty firearm in one hand and nursing his jewels with the other. The look on his face would have shriveled lesser men, which Bob and I were not.

  “You’re one crazy son of a bitch,” he growled at me. “I should bust your ass for that.”

  I grinned at him.

  “Who are these two assholes, Billy?” Willett asked. His voice was strained. He obviously wasn’t used to being on the receiving end.

  Billy? More an equal than assistant, I think.

  “They’re private cops; want to talk about Hill House, and you’re right: he is a crazy son of a bitch. You pull a stunt like that again, Starke, and I’ll have you arrested.”

  Willett’s eyes had narrowed, his forehead ridged with frown lines. “Say whut? Hill House? That ol’ dump on McCallie? Whut you wanna know ‘bout that foh?”

  I ignored him (so did his boss) and directed my attention to Dickerson.

  “You ran a business in Hill House for a number of years,” I said, “from sometime in 1998 until you were thrown out in June of 2005. What was that all about?”

  “I don’t know what business it is of yours, or why I should even talk to you, but I ran the house as a charity, a homeless shelter, and I wasn’t thrown out. I had a good offer and I moved out. Darius, here, was one of my rescues. He’s been with me ever since.”

  “Mostly young girls, right?” Bob said.

  Dickerson said nothing.

  “Young girls?” Bob asked again.

  “Some were girls, yes.” His eyes were shifting. It seemed he wouldn’t look at either one of us.

  “And what happened to them, the young girls?” Bob is nothing if not persistent.

  “What do you mean, what happened to them? Some we found homes for, some were returned to their parents, and some ran away again. I don’t like these questions. What’s this all about, Mr. Starke?”

  “How many girls, over the years, did you find homes for?” I asked.

  “Hell, I don’t know. You’ll have to ask India. She keeps track of things like that, not me.”

  “Okay, I can do that. So tell me, how many young people do you have here now?”

  “Including staff....” He thought for a moment, his lips moving, counting to himself, then said, “Thirty-seven, plus India and me.”

  “Tell us about your criminal record,” Bob said.

  “Whaaat? What? The hell with you,” he spluttered, and started to get to his feet. “Get the hell out of here.”

  “Mr. Dickerson,” I said, quietly. “Please sit down. You were arrested six times for pimping between 1986 and 2008.... Hold on. Let me finish,” I said, as he opened his mouth to interrupt. “Never once did you do time for it. Much of that time, you were at Hill House providing shelter for young girls and boys. How many of them, I wonder, did you put on the streets? Now you’re at it again, running another shelter, and again it’s mostly for young girls. Must be profitable. You know what I think? I think you have someone important in your pocket. Who are you paying off, Billy?”

  “Screw you, Starke. You’ve no idea what you’re talking about. I run a legitimate 501c3, non-profit charitable home here. I do good work. God’s work. Good community work. Now, if you’re finished, get the hell out of my office.”

  “Billy,” I said. “Listen to me. The reason we’re here is because they found the body of a teenage girl under the floorboards of what was the master bedroom of that house. It’s been there since you ran the place.” Not quite a lie, but let’s see what he thinks of it.

  He stared at me, his eyes wide, his mouth open. “What are you talking about?” he stammered.

  “A young black girl, aged about seventeen, stuffed under the boards ten or twelve years ago, when you were in residence. Any thoughts, Billy?”

  He looked furtively at Willett, got no reaction from him, and turned his stare again at me. “I dunno what you’re talking about. That was the communal room back then, like out there.” He waved his hand in the direction of the door. “I don’t know nothin’ about no body, or no girl. Nothin’.”

  I looked at Willett. He stared back at me, his eyes mere slits, unblinking. The muscles of his face were tight, but twitching, like he had a tick. I looked again at Dickerson.

  “Why do you allow your assistant to carry a concealed weapon?” I asked. “You claim to be a pastor. Why would he need one?”

  “Do you know this area, at all, Starke? It’s a goddamn jungle out there: street gangs, illegals. Darius, and a couple of others, looks after security around here. A gun is a necessity. I have one. Hell, even India has one.”

  He was right. It was a rough neighborhood. By now though, I was convinced of two things: one, this man was no reverend; he was still a pimp, and two, I wasn’t going to get a whole lot more out of him, except....

  “What’s your connection with Salvatore De Luca, Billy?”

  He looked stunned; the color emptied from his face. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw that Willett had also stiffened.

  “Who? I don’t know anybody by that name.”

  “Sure you do. Everybody knows Sal. Just the fact that you deny knowing him tells me that you do know him. You’re one shady son of a bitch, Billy, and I’m not finished with you yet, not by a long shot. I’ll be back. Bob, let’s get out of this... this septic tank.”

  I got to my feet and walked out of his office into the big room beyond. The air out there was like a breath of spring... nah, it was just better than in Billy’s office, but it was still a swamp. Bob followed me down the stairs and out into the parking lot and the rain.
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br />   “Goddamn it. Look at that.” Oh I was pissed. Someone had taken something sharp to the Maxima, and it wasn’t something small, like a key. The two deep, wide scratches, one along each side, and two huge crosses, one on the trunk and one on the hood, would need a full paint job to repair. Christ. Sons of bitches.

  I drove the car the few blocks back to my offices and called the dealership and had them come pick it up. Then I called a rental company and booked a car for the next couple of weeks. Thank the Lord for insurance companies.

  Chapter 9

  “So, what do you think?” I asked Bob as we sat together in my office.

  “Of the Reverend Dickerson? He’s one nasty son of a bitch. He’s into trafficking. I’d bet my last dollar on it. The kid under the floor was one of his victims; I’d bet on that, as well.”

  I nodded. “Those were my thoughts, too. I don’t know about the body, though. We need to identify her before we can even hope to figure anything out.”

  Bob said nothing. He stared down into the steam from his coffee cup. “What’s next, Harry?”

  “Well, if you’ll drive, we’ll get some lunch, and then go see the Draycotts. I have an appointment for two-fifteen. When we’ve finished there, you can take me to the rental company to pick up a car. What do you want to eat for lunch?”

  Well, hell, he wanted Mexican. Now I like the real thing, in Mexico, but here in Chattanooga not so much. We settled on Chinese at the Forbidden City on Gunbarrel Road.

  We ate, for the most part, in silence; mostly that was my fault. Bob knows me well, perhaps too well, and he could see I needed to think. My appetite was away with the birds. I picked and played with my spicy chicken, then pushed it away, sipped on my iced tea, and stared out of the window at the rain, but that was not what I saw. In my imagination, I watched the scene, some ten years ago, as I thought it might have played out; the young girl struggling for her life, a fight she was doomed to lose. I tried to shake it off, but couldn’t. It did my already black mood no good and, for a moment, I wondered if I should call it a day and go home. I didn’t, but I knew I’d need to be very careful during the upcoming interview with the Draycotts. These people were not the Dickersons.

  “Ready, Bob?” I asked, as he laid down his fork. He nodded. I dropped two twenties on the table and got to my feet.

  Outside, the weather was even worse. Thunder and lightning crackled overhead. The driving rain gusted and swirled between the streets. The roads were fast-running creeks, and the drains were barely able to cope with the volume. It was beyond depressing: just what I needed.

  We were already on Gunbarrel, so the drive to the Draycotts’ place on East Brainerd Road took less than five minutes.

  The Clermont complex was actually located just off East Brainerd Road. For some reason, maybe it was just the crappy weather, the large, three-story, brick-built block of living units, surrounded as it was by a high brick wall complete with electronic gates, reminded me of the county jail. That’s not a good start.

  Bob pulled the car up to the electronic key pad and hit the buzzer. A tinny, almost incoherent voice asked, “Can I help you?”

  Bob told the little box who we were, and a moment later the gate swung slowly open.

  The main building was quite new: a large rectangular block built with beige-colored bricks and a flat roof, surrounded by neatly landscaped gardens. The windows, three rows, one atop the other, were small, which only added to the prison-like facade. A circular drive took us to the front door where a young woman in an open lab coat was waiting at the top of the five steps.

  She introduced herself as Bonnie Parsons, the receptionist, and showed us through into a large, airy waiting room.

  “Doctor Draycott will be with you shortly,” she said, leaving us alone. I looked around the room: nice, comfortable furniture, typical of a doctor’s waiting room. The walls were covered with framed photographs. Many of them were of young people, some were obviously of the Draycotts. Several of the photos were of particular interest: group photos; some of them obviously taken during the time when the Draycotts were at Hill House. Two of them included a much younger William and India Dickerson and two other adults I assumed were the Draycotts. A third photo included only the four of them, and the man I assumed was Draycott had his arm around Dickerson’s shoulder. Both men had big smiles on their faces. I beckoned Bob over and pointed them out. He looked carefully at them, then at me, his eyes wide.

  “Wow,” he mouthed.

  I nodded.

  “Looking into my past, are you? Good times, those. I’m Sam Draycott,” he said, walking toward us with his hand out, “and one of you must be Mr. Starke.”

  “I am,” I said, taking his hand and shaking it. His grip was firm. “And this is my associate, Bob Ryan.”

  “Nice to meet you both. Why don’t we go through to my office? Would you like coffee, tea, water?” We didn’t, and he led the way along a pristine corridor any hospital would have been proud of to an already open door.

  “Please, sit down.” He indicated a group of four chairs around a low, but very large coffee table. “Are you sure you wouldn’t like some coffee? Doctor Draycott will join us shortly.” Doctor Draycott... I thought... oh hell, yes. There are two of them.

  Draycott was an impressive personage, about as different from Billy Dickerson as it was possible to get. At sixty-two years old, and almost six feet tall, he was fit, gray haired, and wore a classic Van Dyke beard. His crisp, white shirt was accented by a pale blue tie. The tan pants were sharply creased, and the wide leather belt sported an incongruously large silver buckle. Over it all, he wore an open lab coat. Impressive.

  Again, we declined his offer, and sat down, Bob and I on one side of the table, Draycott on the other.

  “I’m sorry. I hope I haven’t kept you waiting,” Mrs. Draycott said as she entered.

  The black business suit fit her perfectly; the perfect contrast for her bobbed, platinum blonde hair. The skirt was cut three inches above the knee and her calves were accentuated by the five-inch heels she was wearing. We all stood. I made the introductions. In those high heels, she was the taller of the two Draycotts. The greeting over with, she joined her husband at the far side of the table and sat down. She was wearing glasses with large frames. She removed them, laid them down on the table, crossed her legs at the ankles, and clasped her hands together on her knees.

  I knew she was sixteen years Draycott’s junior, but she looked older than her forty-six years. It was easy to see that although her body had weathered the years well, she’d had some work done on her face; her skin was smooth and blemish-free, but stretched a little too tightly, especially at the corners of her eyes, and her lips were just a little fuller than was natural. Even so, she was a very attractive woman. Her demeanor, however, was austere, even a little hostile.

  “I presume this is about Hill House; the body that was found under the floor?” Sam Draycott said. “I have already spoken to the police, a Lieutenant Gazzara. She said you would be getting in touch, and she asked us to cooperate. We are pleased to do so. So, please, ask your questions, Mr. Starke. We’ll do our best to answer them.”

  “Thank you, Doctor, but if you don’t mind, I’d like to get a handle on what you do here, just the background stuff, of course.”

  “Yes, why not.” He glanced sideways at his wife as he said it. Nothing. Hmmm. This one is hard to read.

  “I’ll try to be brief. The Clermont Foundation is a 501c3 nonprofit organization. We provide emergency shelter, transitional housing, medical and support services, and education to homeless girls aged between twelve and twenty-one, both here in the city and in Hamilton Country. We offer our services in the belief that youth must have their basic needs met before they can begin to build a promising future for themselves.”

  “Those needs,” I said, “would be extensive, correct?”

  “Indeed they would, and we provide for all of their needs: medical, which is my department, mine and my staff. The mental sid
e of things is handled by Ellen and her staff; she is a psychiatrist. We provide clean, comfortable housing for them, here in this block, which has a variety of communal and recreation areas. There are also four separate quadraplexes on the grounds: independent living for those girls who can handle it. It’s a fairly substantial operation. We can look after up to sixty girls here.”

  “I understand the principle, Dr. Draycott, but why just young girls? Why not cater to the homeless in general, and why no boys?”

  “Please, call me Sam. To answer the first part of your question, I, that is we,” he looked at his wife, “decided a long time ago that it would be better to devote our limited resources to the most vulnerable section of the homeless community, young girls. As to males... well... it just isn’t practical to mix the genders, if you understand me.”

  I nodded. I certainly did understand.

  “Tell me about the girls, Doctor, if you don’t mind. Where do they come from? How do you find them?”

  “Most of them are runaways,” Ellen Draycott said. “Some are victims of trafficking. Some we pick up off the streets. We have a team, well, just two people, who do nothing but travel the streets looking for them, and a nasty job it is, too. Others are referred to us by DCS and by local churches. Unfortunately, we can take only the neediest cases; money is a big factor.”

  “I see....” I said. I must have looked skeptical, because she interrupted me.

  “Mr. Starke. What do you think happens to a young girl who has been locked out by her family, or who flees to escape an abusive home situation? What about those girls in foster care? What becomes of them when they age out of that program? Those girls are not prepared to take their place in society. Most are not properly educated. Most can’t get a job. Just imagine waking up on your eighteenth birthday and finding yourself homeless, jobless, and alone. Do we simply ignore them, turn them loose and let them fall by the wayside? I should think not.”

  “You paint a vivid and terrifying picture, Doctor,” I said.

  “Not vivid or terrifying enough, I’m afraid. Ex-foster care children, most of them, are not mature enough to be called adults even if technically they are. And they are certainly not the biggest problem. Imagine trying to save a fifteen-year-old runaway turned hooker. Most of them... no, all of them, are tied to pimps, scared shitless — please excuse the language — of what will happen to them if they are disloyal. It can be done, but it’s not easy, is it, Sam?”