Dead River (32 page)

Harley continued, ignoring the complaint. “It usually takes five to six weeks to get DNA results back from the lab, so the report will probably come in just before the preliminary hearing.”

Harley sensed Sikes was disturbed about something. “What’s the problem, son?”

“What happens if the test they do isn’t done right? There’re a lot of incompetent people in the world, people that don’t know what the hell they’re doing.”

“You shouldn’t concern yourself with that.”

“Sure I should.” Sikes examined the bruise again, taking a deep breath. “What happens when the tests come back negative? Does it mean I get out of here?”

“Unfortunately, no. Even if your DNA doesn’t match samples taken from the Riley girl, the prosecution will move forward and get a grand jury indictment. They will still have enough evidence,” Harley explained.

Sikes’s eyes narrowed and his jaw tightened. “Like what?”

“The hair strands that were found in the bedroom where you stayed at the McCarthy house. Remember, I told you they matched the hair sample taken from the Riley girl.”

“Yes, I remember you told me that, but I told you I don’t know how they got there. Someone planted them, because I don’t even know this girl. Goddamn it, this is bullshit! I want out of here!”

“Quiet down, son. They’ll make me leave if you keep carrying on like that.”

Sikes sat in silence, his eyes bulging.

“Then there’s the phone number imprinted on the paper that the Riley girl wrote her note on. We also talked about that during our first meeting.”

“Damn it, I told you I don’t know nothin’ about a note!”

“You have to lower your voice,” Harley whispered. “There’s one final item, and I don’t want to hear an outburst, okay?”

Sikes stared straight ahead, his bloodshot eyes locked on Harley’s. “What is it? What other lies do you have?”

“It’s been brought to my attention that the police have voice recordings of the murderer.”

Harley leaned back in his chair and paused for a moment, waiting for a reaction. Nothing. “They recorded his voice using a wiretap set up at the victim’s house.”

Again Harley waited for a response but didn’t get one. “Okay, listen. I’m going to be gone for two weeks.”

“Where are you going?” Sikes asked, suddenly and surprisingly calm.

“I have to go out of town on business. There isn’t anything to do right now as far as we’re concerned. I have my staff working on several things, but you and I don’t need to meet until a few days before the preliminary hearing.”

Sikes shrugged his shoulders as if nothing suddenly mattered.

Harley moved his chair back, the wooden legs shrieking on the shiny concrete floor. “I have one more question before I leave. Do you know a Gabriel?”

“Why’s everyone so interested in Gabriel?” Sikes asked.

“So you know him?”

“No … I mean yes. That FBI guy asked me the same thing. As I told him, the only Gabriel I know is the archangel Gabriel.”

“What do know about him?”

“That he’s the second-highest-ranking angel.” Sikes seemed to settle into a comfort zone as he spoke. “And he had the most wings of any of the archangels,” he said proudly, like a schoolboy answering a question that no one expected him to answer.

“The most wings?” Harley asked.

“Yeah, he had a hundred and forty wings. Isn’t that something?”

“Have you ever heard him referred to as the ‘Angel of Death’?”

Sikes appeared unflappable at the moment. “Yeah, sure, by the Jews. They always look at everything negative.”

“How do you know all of this, David?”

“Because my mother made me read the Bible when I was a kid. Anything wrong with that?”

“I suppose not.”

“I always had to do as Mother said. Always.”

 70

TWO MONTHS HAD PASSED since Sara Ann’s disappearance, and all the Rileys knew of the case against David Allen Sikes was what they had seen on the news. The coverage had dwindled to tidbits of information that occasionally appeared on one of the local stations that liked to cover such news. The reports usually consisted of the state attorney’s office making a statement about how the man responsible for this horrid crime would be brought to justice. Owen Jacobson always appeared before the camera, never passing up a chance for exposure. His delivery was always the same.

“We want a speedy trial.”

“We seek the death penalty.”

“Justice will be served.”

Study door shut and feet propped up on the desk, Adam skimmed through his evening newspaper, only scanning the headlines of the articles. He reflected on the preliminary hearing to be held in one week, trying to decide whether he should go. Valerie would certainly try to talk him out of attending. Could he sit in the same room with the man who killed his daughter? In a way, the prospect terrified him. Was he losing control? Maybe this isn’t a good time to see Sara Ann’s killer in person, he thought.

The phone was ringing.

“Hello.”

“Mr. Riley?”

“Yes, this is Adam Riley.”

“I have some information I believe will be of interest to you.”

Adam didn’t recognize the man’s voice.

“Who is this?”

“Never mind, just listen to me.”

Adam’s stomach knotted.

“There’s a good chance the man that killed your daughter will be set free.”

“What?” Adam shouted.

The phone went dead. His heart thumped in his chest.

He sat at his desk, head in hands, trying to think what to do next. Think. Think. Are all of the doors in the house locked? Is the security system armed? Thank God he had taken Peter Carillo’s advice and had an alarm system installed. Adam ran downstairs and checked each door and made sure the security system was armed. After his inspection, he ran up the stairs and back into the study.

Think. Call Detective Wilkerson. He searched the top right drawer in the desk and fumbled through a pile of business cards. His hands were shaking, but he managed to find the card the detective had given him the day Sara Ann was kidnapped. He turned the card over and found Wilkerson’s home phone number.

As he picked up the phone, he heard Valerie’s voice.

“What on earth are you doing? Why are you running around the house?”

“Go downstairs with Dawn,” Adam ordered. “I have to make a phone call, then I’ll explain.”

Adam waited several rings for an answer. Could it have been a prank call? Maybe there was a chance the charges against Sikes would be dropped and the caller actually wanted to warn me of his release. But who? Was it Sikes himself calling?

“Hello.”

“Detective Wilkerson?”

“Yes.”

“This is Adam Riley. I just received a disturbing phone call from someone.”

“Okay, slow down. What did they say?”

“He said he had some information that would be of interest to me. That there’s a chance the man that killed Sara Ann would be set free.”

“So you didn’t recognize his voice?”

“No, but it was definitely a man’s voice, an older man. I thought it might have been a prank call. Maybe it was Sikes, you know, disguising his voice. Does he have access to a phone in jail?”

“Yes, but limited use, and they can only make collect calls.”

“Goddamn it, what’s going on? What the hell are you going to do about this?”

“Settle down, Mr. Riley. I’ll check into it tomorrow.”

Adam took the receiver and launched it in the direction of the phone cradle. It bounced twice on the desktop and ended up dangling off the edge of the desk. He stared at the empty cradle. What about Carillo’s other suggestion? Maybe he’s right. Maybe I do need a handgun.

 71

THE MORNING of the preliminary hearing was refreshingly cool. October was Harley’s favorite time of the year. For now, the dog days of summer were gone.

As Harley cruised on I-95 toward the Moore Justice Center in Viera, he went over what he would present in court, and the questions he would ask Mr. Slick’s witnesses. He parked his car and walked to the entrance. The Moore Justice Center was one of six relatively new buildings in the Brevard County government complex. The structures were allegedly pleasing to the eye, but Harley had never liked the sterile look of their modern architecture. Granted, the complex was clearly organized in a hierarchy of forms that were related by their functionality as well as design. However, he preferred the old courthouse in Titusville. There he felt a sense of excitement when he stepped inside the building; the smell alone was enough to feel like you could win any legal battle.

As far as Harley was concerned, courthouses rested on hallowed ground. The courthouse itself should be a sacred edifice, constructed of brick and mortar and stone with rising Corinthian columns lined up like sentries standing guard over our laws, inside justice doled out by judges and juries. But old-fashioned courthouses were giving way to justice centers, those one-stop antiseptic judicial complexes with twelve courtrooms, a family courtroom, the clerk of courts, a family and civil mediation center, a law library, a public viewing area, a jury assembly room, and even a goddamn Subway sandwich shop.

Harley had two character witnesses he would call for Sikes. He wasn’t trying to cast doubt on the validity of the charges against his client. Instead, he wanted to discredit the prosecution’s witnesses. At least raise some doubt. A plan worth trying.

At eight forty-five the courtroom was casually busy with its usual players carrying out their usual activities. The judge’s assistant chatted with the court stenographer as she prepared her equipment for the proceedings, the court deputy rattled the key chain attached to his belt, a court assistant checked the paperwork on the state attorney’s table, and a maintenance worker unlocked the plastic case that secured the thermostat and made an adjustment.

There was an overabundance of pecan wood in the courtroom, too much to suit Harley’s liking. Again, it seemed too modern and too sterile. But it was the overhead lighting that annoyed him the most. The closely-spaced, recessed halogens lit up the courtroom like a Hollywood movie set.

Harley positioned himself at the defense table, strategically placing notes and documents from his thick, brown-leather briefcase. He checked his watch. It was ten minutes to nine. A door to the right of the judge’s bench opened, and a court deputy led Sikes into the brilliantly-lit courtroom. Harley greeted him with a nod. Sikes was lowered into the chair next to Harley, still handcuffed.

The two large doors at the back of the courtroom groaned as they swung open. Harley turned and saw a horde of reporters invading the courtroom. Within a few minutes, the once-vacant rows of pews were crammed with bustling bodies. It was a full house. Harley had his audience.

Owen Jacobson finally made his grand entrance, his familiar march to the prosecutor’s table, glancing several times toward the back of the courtroom to make sure he was spotted by the press. As he passed by the defense table, his head turned, sneering in Harley’s direction. Harley simply smiled back.

“All rise,” the court deputy barked. “The Circuit Court of the Eighteenth Judicial Circuit of Florida is now in session, the Honorable Judge Warren Vetter presiding. You may be seated.”

Harley watched Vetter’s beady eyes dart around the courtroom. The judge’s hands lay flat on the bench.

“Everyone in this courtroom must understand this is a preliminary hearing, not some wailing TV court show. I will not tolerate any outbursts in my courtroom.”

Jacobson had three witnesses; the first was Detective Glenn Wilkerson. He questioned Wilkerson about the letter that was recovered from the Cocoa Beach post office early Tuesday morning, August 21. Jacobson wanted to know how the letter was handled, what postmark it bore, who had verified the handwriting, and how the paper had been analyzed at the FBI labs in Quantico. The testimony was slow, boring, and devoid of any new information.

Mr. Slick took advantage of every opportunity to bring up the name of FBI Special Agent Douglas Goldman. He praised Goldman for his work on the case and mentioned several times that the defendant would have never been apprehended without Goldman’s assistance.