The Harry Starke Series: Books 1-3: The Harry Starke Series Boxset Page 6

  “Maybe so, but I promised Kate, and I can’t just walk in on him without a reason. There’s something else. I’m looking into Tabitha Willard’s death. There’s a chance he might be involved in that, too, though for the life of me I can’t see how.”

  “I thought she committed suicide; hell, Harry, you saw her do it. What’s to investigate?”

  “I’m not sure, but the word is that Lester Tree works for Harper, and I know he had something to do with it.”

  Silence.... “All right, Harry. I suppose I could make a donation to the foundation. You could take a check. But why would I? Harper’s no fool. I’d need a reason, and a good one.”

  “How about a campaign donation?”

  “Better. Consider it done. I’ll send a check for $2,700 to your office. That’s the max allowable under Federal law. You’ll have it by four o’clock.”

  “What do you want me to tell him? What’s the reason for the donation?”

  “Hell, Harry. You can handle that, for God’s sake. Tell him I like what he did with the Senior Aid Bill. Whatever you like. If he wants to call me, you can tell him he can. How’s that?”

  “Perfect. Thanks.”

  “Let me know how it goes.” Click!

  Well, that’s Dad for you. No goodbye, no see you later.

  Okay, so four o’clock. Hmmm, I have some time to kill. I picked up the office phone and buzzed Jacque. My office door opened almost before I’d put down the phone, and she swept in, notepad in hand, and dragged up a chair. I looked at her, slowly shaking my head.

  “What?”

  “Nothing. Look, I need you to call Congressman Harper’s office. See if you can make an appointment for me to see him early tomorrow morning. I don’t care what time, just get me in. One thing though. Make it sound casual, not urgent. If he asks why I want to see him, tell him you don’t know, but you think it’s something to do with my father.”

  She made a few squiggles on the pad, and then looked up at me expectantly.

  “I need someone to look into the financing of a new strip mall up on McCallie. Maybe you can get young Rogers to check into it. He needs the experience. Tell him that I need to know who owns it, who put up the money, who owns the businesses, and I’ll need to know all of that before I go see Harper. If Rogers runs into a roadblock, and he might, have Ronnie give him a hand with it. Okay, Jacque. That’s it for now. I need some quiet time. I need to think. Keep the wolves away for an hour or so. Only urgent calls, yes?”

  “Yes, of course. But please don’t forget to call Judge Strange and Larry Soames. Can I get you some coffee?”

  “No, but thanks. Just make sure I’m not disturbed. I’ll buzz you if I need you, or when I’m done.”

  She nodded, got up, and left the room, leaving me to enjoy a moment or two of quiet solitude.

  I tilted the chair, put my feet up on the desk, closed my eyes, and let the thoughts whirl around in my head. Then I suddenly realized I needed to talk to Charlie Maxwell. Dammit! I dropped my feet back to the floor, sat up, and dialed the number Doctor Willard had given me. It rang and rang. I was just about to hang up when she answered.

  “Hello.” The voice was low, sexy. She made that single word sound like an invitation you couldn’t refuse.

  “Charlotte Maxwell?”

  “Yes, speaking.”

  “Ms. Maxwell. My name is Harry Starke. I’m a private investigator—”

  “Yes, I know. Doctor Willard called me. He said you might call.”

  “Oh, okay. Well, I was there, on the bridge, when Tabitha.... Well, you know. I wonder if you could spare a few minutes, to talk. How about I buy you coffee?”

  “Well, I suppose, but....”

  When you’ve got ‘em on the hook, you’ve gotta reel ‘em in, quick, or they’ll get away.

  “Great. How about Starbucks at the Read House. In thirty minutes?”

  There was a moment of silence, then, “Well, okay. Thirty minutes. How will I know you?”

  “I’ll be the guy in the black leather jacket. See you in thirty.”

  I hung up the phone, jumped to my feet, and walked out into the main office. Jacque looked up, her eyes questioning.

  “Sorry. Gotta go out for a few. Back when I can. Take messages.”

  Chapter 9

  I arrived at Starbucks just a few moments before Charlotte did. Some years ago, many years ago, there was a song, “Did You Ever See a Dream Walk In?” Corny as hell, right? Yeah, but now I know exactly what the guy who wrote it meant. Charlotte Maxwell was a dream, a vision. Tall, slim, dressed in tight-fitting black jeans, a black silk blouse, white leather waist-length jacket, and high heels, her dark brown hair was swept back from her high forehead and tied in a ponytail. Her eyes were huge, the color of pale jade. Contacts?

  As far as I could tell, she wore little makeup — she didn’t need to — just a hint of pale rose lipstick. This girl could have stepped right off the runway. Every head in the room turned to look at her, and it was easy to tell that she was used to the attention.

  I stood, waved to her, and waited as she stalked across the room toward me. Even her walk attracted attention. I slid out a chair for her, and she flowed into it. How do they do that?

  “What can I get for you, Charlotte?”

  “Call me Charlie. Everyone does. I’ll have a tall iced coffee, please.” There was that voice again.

  “So, Mr. Detective.” She looked at me, thoughtfully, as I put the drink down on the table in front of her. “You said you wanted to talk to me about Tab. What would you like to know?”

  “Let’s start with how well you knew her.”

  She leaned her elbows on the table, hands folded over one another under her chin, and looked into my eyes. My heart almost stopped.

  “Oh, I knew her well, very well. We were like sisters.” The voice was deep, not quite husky.

  “Tell me about her.”

  “She was a very sweet girl. Gentle, giving, loving; she was my best friend. What else is there to tell?”

  “What was she doing in a sleazy downtown bar at midnight? What was her relationship with the two gangbangers I saw her with in that bar? Why was she scared out of her wits? Why would she take a header off the bridge? How about those questions, just for starters, Charlie?”

  She looked at me, her chin still resting on the backs of her hands, and then she leaned back in her chair, shrugged, turned her head, and looked away. Her mood was pensive, her expression passive. For a long moment, she was silent, then she turned her head again and looked me directly in the eye.

  “I... don’t... know.” She didn’t say it aloud. She mouthed it, her mouth exaggerating the form of each word.

  “You don’t know? But you were her best friend. If anyone would know what was going on with her, you would. Think.... Was she in trouble? Was there anything different about her these last few weeks?”

  She thought for a moment, staring at me. I was beginning to feel a little uncomfortable.

  “Hmmm... well, maybe. She certainly didn’t like it when Michael dumped her.”

  “Michael? Do you know his last name?”

  “Falk. Michael Falk. They’d been seeing each other for about a year. I thought it was serious. Obviously, though, he didn’t think so.”

  Michael Falk! I made a mental note of the name.

  “Where can I find him? Do you have a phone number?”“

  “I don’t know. I have no idea where he lives, and I don’t know his phone number, but I do know he works for some politician or other. Speechwriter, I think. They were all hot and heavy for a while, Tab and him, then all of a sudden... well, you know; that was it. I haven’t seen him for several weeks.”

  I perked up. “Politician? Any idea who?”

  “Oh yes. Gordon Harper.”

  I smiled to myself. “Go on.”

  “Well, after Michael left her, she seemed quiet, agitated, and unhappy. I put all that down to the breakup, but then I began to see less and less of her. We used to b
e joined at the hip, even when she was seeing someone, but that all changed about three weeks ago, when Michael....” She broke off, eyes watering. “Why did she do it, Mr. Starke? She had it all: beauty, money, everything.” She leaned forward, reached out, and put her hand on mine. This time my heart did stop.

  I let her hand stay where it was and swallowed. “Charlie, I know she was in public relations. Her father told me that, but who did she work for, and what exactly did she do all day, every day?”

  She withdrew her hand, picked up her coffee, leaned back, took a sip, and then looked at me through lowered eyelids. Damn.

  “I don’t know who she worked for. Some company out of New York, I think. I never did ask her the name. Frankly, I wasn’t interested. I think she may have freelanced for them. She was able to come and go pretty much as she pleased. I do know she had several major clients, regulars, who took up a lot of her time. She spent a lot of the time on the computer, doing research: Facebook, Twitter, you know how it is. And she had a good time. She had a great social life, was a good golfer, played tennis, and she had lots and lots of friends. She traveled some, to New York, Chicago, and Boston, Washington. She stayed busy.”

  All the time she was talking, she was gazing at me through lowered lashes.

  Geeze, I’d had enough. She was intimidating. Hot as hell, but intimidating. I had to get out of there before I said something I’d regret, but before I did....

  “How about these, Charlie? What do you know about them?” One by one, I laid them out in front her, the card, the key, and finally, the pendant. I watched her eyes, looking for the least little reaction: nothing.

  She touched the card with the forefinger of her right hand. “I’ve never seen this before.”

  “What about the phone number? Do you recognize it?”

  She shook her head.

  “The key?”

  She shrugged, shook her head.

  “What about the pendant?”

  She stared at it, hesitated. It wasn’t much, and if I hadn’t been looking for it, I wouldn’t have noticed.

  “No.”

  “Charlie....”

  “What?”

  “Come on, Charlie. You’re not a good liar. I can tell. You’ve seen it before. Haven’t you?”

  She stared at me, for a long moment, then nodded.

  “What does it mean, Charlie? Where did she get it?”

  “I’ve no idea what it means, probably nothing. It was a gift.”

  “A gift? Who gave it to her, Charlie? When?”

  “It wasn’t too long ago, maybe six months. Perhaps a little longer. I don’t know who gave it to her. She never talked about it. I did ask her, but all she’d say was that a friend had given it to her. She didn’t say who that friend was.”

  “Why didn’t you want to tell me about it?”

  Again, she hesitated. “I don’t know. Tab was.... She.... I don’t know, Mr. Starke.... I didn’t want to... get her into trouble?” She said it as if it was a question. Then she lowered her eyes and looked down at her coffee. She knew something. I was sure of it, but I had a feeling I wasn’t going to get any more out of her than I already had, at least not now. Maybe another time.

  She looked up at me. There were tears in her eyes. “Do you think it had something to do with...?”

  I shook my head, gathered the items up and put them back in my pocket. “Probably not, but she was wearing it when they found her. It’s kinda unique.”

  She nodded and wiped her eyes with a tissue she took from her pocket, then she seemed to get herself together. She straightened, sat up, very erect, her hands folded one atop the other on the table, and smiled at me.

  “One more thing, Charlie, what do you do for a living?”

  She looked a little taken aback by the question, hesitated for a second. “Me? I’m in computers. I’m a systems analyst, among other things.”

  “What other things?”

  She smiled, looked at me through half-closed eyes. “Come now, Harry. A girl has to keep some secrets, right?”

  I took out my wallet, handed her my card. “Okay. That will do it for now, Charlie, and thank you. You’ve been very helpful. I need to go, catch up on a few things. If you think of anything else, please give me a call.”

  She stood up, looked down at me, her eyes wide. They were like vast pools of emerald water flecked with gold. Contacts. Gotta be.

  “Will I see you again?”

  It wasn’t the question that took my breath away. It was the way she asked it: full of promise.

  “Maybe. If I need to talk to you again. Goodbye, Charlie.”

  I took out my phone and dialed. She took the hint, left me sitting there, staring after her. I waited a moment then followed her out onto the street, just in time to see the back of her as she turned right into the multi-story parking lot.

  As cold as it was that afternoon, I was sweating. The air outside was like cool white wine, and I gulped as much of it into me as I could.

  I sat in the car, thinking about the interview. It was hard to get my mind off the girl, Charlie, but I was having a tough time trying to figure her out. One thing I was sure of, she knew more than she pretended. I’d need to talk to Charlie Maxwell again.

  Chapter 10

  I got back to the office right after four. Both Jacque and young Mike Rogers stood when I walked in. Mike looked excited. I pulled a wry face. I had a lot on my mind and didn’t need to lose track of it. I needed some quiet time, time to think. Nevertheless, as I swept through the main office and opened the door to my inner sanctum, I waved for them to follow. I flung myself down in my chair and crossed my feet on top of the desk.

  “Sit down, both of you; talk to me.”

  Rogers sat. Jacque didn’t.

  She said, “You have an appointment with Congressman Harper at ten tomorrow. He was reluctant, but I persuaded him. I wouldn’t be late, if I were you. He just might cancel. That’s all I have. I’ll leave you two to talk.”

  “Oh, Jacque....”

  She paused, turned. “Yes?”

  “Have Ronnie and Tim come in, please. Tell them they’ll need to take notes.”

  She nodded and closed the door behind her. I looked at Rogers. He was excited, couldn’t wait.

  “Hold on, son. Let’s wait for Ronnie and Tim.”

  Tim Clarke is my computer geek. He handles all things to do with the Internet, including operating and maintaining the company website. He also handles background checks and skip searches, and a whole lot more besides. He can find people, addresses, phone numbers, you name it. He’s a geek, and he looks like one. Tall, skinny, glasses, twenty-five years old. He’s perhaps the most useful and effective tool in my bag.

  Ronnie Hall handles my white-collar investigations. He’s been around since I opened the office. His background is in banking. He has an MSc in finance from the London School of Economics.

  “Sit down, guys. Before we begin, Tim, did you have any luck tracing that number?

  “The phone was purchased at Walmart, Gunbarrel branch, on December third last year. That’s all I have. The security tapes are on a loop.”

  I nodded. I wasn’t surprised. Sometimes it works. Sometimes it doesn’t.

  “Okay, Mike. Let me have it.”

  “Green Tree Strip Mall....”

  I laughed out loud, couldn’t help it. I didn’t mean to interrupt the boy, but ‘Green Tree?’ That’s hilarious. Shady really was coming up in the world. “Sorry, Mike. Go on.”

  “The financing for the construction of the mall was provided by the Horstel Group, a merchant bank registered and located in Dubai. The mall is owned by Stanwood Properties of Atlanta, a company specializing in real estate investments. The company officers are....” He grinned at me across the desk. “Lester Tree and Henry Gold. The tax records list Lester Tree as the COO. Stanwood Properties is owned by Goodwin and Associates, a shell corporation registered in the Cayman Islands. Goodwin and Associates are, in turn, owned by Nickajack Investmen
ts, another shell corporation, also registered in the Cayman Islands. As far as I can tell, there is no Goodwin and there are no associates and, so far, I can find nothing at all about Nickajack Investments.”

  I scanned my notes. “Wow,” I murmured, more to myself than to Rogers. “It takes your breath away. There’s no way it’s legal. Why would they need to hide it away like that? It’s just a little strip mall, for God’s sake.” I looked up at him. “Nickajack? As in Nickajack Lake, Nickajack Dam?”

  He nodded and grinned at me. “Coincidence?”

  “Not likely. That name is unique to Chattanooga. Someone is thumbing their nose at the establishment and, considering his connection to Tree, that would most likely be the erstwhile Congressman Harper. I wonder who is financing the financier, Horstel? Any idea?

  “No, sir. You know the banking system in Dubai: tight as f... sorry, Mr. Starke. That almost slipped out.”

  “No problem, son. I’ve heard and said a whole lot worse, but go on.”

  “Dubai’s banking system.” He looked at Ronnie and grinned. Ronnie nodded, encouraging him to continue. “Dubai’s banking system is as tight as... well, it’s tight.”

  “Okay,” I said. “So although the Green Tree Mall does not appear to be actually owned by the inimitable Mr. Tree, he was telling the truth. He is in fact the man behind the business.... Nah! There’s no way in hell. I don’t believe it. I wouldn’t trust Shady with a dime of my money, and neither would anyone else who’s known him for more than thirty seconds. He’s a front man, bought and paid for. By Harper, I wouldn’t doubt. We know, at least we think, they’re somehow connected.”

  I leaned back in my chair and stared up at the ceiling. My mind was in a whirl. I came back to earth, looked again at my notes, and then at young Mike Rogers.

  “Okay, Mike, it’s a good start, but we need to know more. Ronnie, I want you to take the lead on this, but keep Mike in the loop; he’s made a good start. Keep digging, both of you. I want to know more about Horstel, Nickajack, Stanwood and Goodwin, and let’s take it a step farther. See what you can find out about Old Man Harper’s Foundation. What is its purpose? Where does it get its money from? How is that money being used? Who is responsible for its operation? Dig deep. I want to know everything there is to know about it. I want to know more about that foundation than Harper does.”