Don't Know Jack (19 page)

Gaspar said, “Not to mention you accused and arrested the wrong dude.”

Roscoe flushed crimson. “If you’re trying to provoke me, Agent Gaspar, keep it up.”

Gaspar gave it right back. “You did accuse Jack Reacher of killing his brother, didn’t you?  And you were wrong. You’re telling me you did that based on a false fingerprint report?”

Roscoe shoved back, rapid fire. “I didn’t accuse Jack Reacher of anything. Chief Morrison accused him.”

“And then Chief Morrison got killed. So let’s see: Bad fingerprint work, two murders, one false arrest. All coincidence?  Or Margrave PD incompetence?”

“There was no incompetence.”

“Who was dirty, then?  Finlay?”

Silence in the room. Bewilderment in Roscoe’s eyes.

She said, “Finlay?  Dirty?”

Then she burst out laughing. Genuine laughter. She laughed like a kid watching cartoons. Tears rolled down her cheeks. She held her stomach in pain as the laughter kept on coming. She was still laughing when Brent knocked and opened the door.

Was the woman mentally unbalanced?

#

Kim looked at the clock to mark the time. It was 11:22 a.m. Forty-eight minutes since the GHP arrived at the scene; five to ten minutes to call in the plate, exit the cruiser, get over to the Chevy, and look inside to find the body. Two to five minutes to call and wait for backup. Talk it over before choosing first responders and making the call. Total lapsed time forty-one to forty-six minutes.

Way too long.

Which meant the Chevy was not Roscoe’s case.

So why were they calling at all?

The stomach snake already knew.

“Chief?”  Brent had looked fresh and clean the day before. Now weary eyes and sallow skin marked him a man who knew he’d screwed up. Maybe he was the one who released Sylvia to the impersonators last night, after all.

Roscoe picked up a tissue and wiped away the tears of laughter from her eyes.

She said, “Yes, Brent, what is it?”

She was still almost giggling. Odd behavior, to say the least.

“We’ve got a situation,” Brent told her, as if another problem was the very last thing he wanted to report. “GHP just notified us. They’ve found another body.”

“Homicide?”

Brent nodded. “Likely. On the interstate, by the cloverleaf at the county road.

“Who is the victim?  Do they know?”

Brent squirmed. Squared his shoulders. Lifted his head. Confessed perhaps the second worst possible news in his world at the moment. “It’s that lawyer. L. Mark Newton. The one picked up Sylvia Black last night.”

Kim and Gaspar looked at each other. Gaspar raised his eyebrow.
The imposter is dead already?
  Followed quickly by,
Why would the boss care about him?

“Any sign of Sylvia?” Roscoe asked.

“Long gone,” Brent said. “Looks like she killed him, too. He was shot just like Harry. Two in the back of the head.”

CHAPTER TWENTY ONE

Margrave, Georgia

November 2

11:39 a.m.

Roscoe looked shell shocked. Kim judged the reaction genuine. Mostly because she wanted it to be.

“Our jurisdiction?” Roscoe asked.

Brent said, “GHP turf. They only called because we’d put our BOLO out there for Newton and they say it’s him.”

Kim thought Brent seemed upset and relieved in equal measure. Upset, because the guy wouldn’t be dead if Sylvia had been properly kept in jail. But what accounted for the relief?    

Roscoe asked, “Who’s there now?”

“Four GHP cruisers, more on the way. Paramedics just arrived. Coroner’s ten minutes out. Guess he had another call. Can’t move the body until he’s done. I don’t know who else. Crime scene will be there, if they’re not already. GHP traffic, probably. This time of day, rubber-neckers won’t be bad, but somebody will need to handle it.”  He looked down at the carpet as if he didn’t want to deliver the last piece of news. But to his credit, he did, eventually. He said, “Media maybe. Got the first notice over the GHP radio. We’re checking the TV news channels.”

“Who’s GHP on scene?  Archie and Jim Leach?” Roscoe asked.

Brent nodded yes.

Swell
, Kim thought. Just what she needed. Another encounter with the Leaches.

Roscoe felt differently.

“Good,” she said. “Did Archie tell you what’s going on?”

“I called him on his cell. The guy is dead. No need to rush, Archie said. They haven’t even opened the car yet.”

“Anything else?”

Brent looked down at his shoes again. “Not that I know of, Chief. Archie said they have it all under control. He said you can take your time.”

“Call him back. Tell him I’ll be there as soon as I can. Tell him to wait until we get there to open the car. I’d like to see the body before they move it.”

“Will do.”

“Tell him I’m about twenty minutes out.”

“10-4.”

“Ask him if that’s OK. Let me know if it’s not.”

“Will do.”

“Before you make the call, can you cue up the edited video from last night?”

“Already done,” he said. “View on camera three.”

Roscoe pulled her cell phone off the desk and held it out to him. “And put two or three good stills on here of Newton, Marshall Wright, and Sylvia.”  He crossed the room and collected the phone and went away to do her bidding.

After the door closed behind him Roscoe turned her computer monitor around. She seemed to change direction and headed there directly. She said, “Take a look at this video. These two guys aren't who they claimed to be; there was no order and nobody sent here from the Marshall service. The short guy is an imposter, too. L. Mark Newton died last year. Obituary is posted on the internet. Give me a positive ID on these two so I can find their asses.”

Roscoe pressed a couple of keys.

“What are we looking at?” Kim asked, admitting nothing. She wanted to trust Roscoe, but Gaspar could too easily be right about her. There was more going on here than Kim could fathom. She moved her chair closer to the monitor. Gaspar’s viewing angle was already good enough.

Roscoe’s demeanor was all business. No hysteria now, if that's what it was before. “We have constant security video inside the station, including last night when Shorty and his sidekick took Sylvia. The whole thing lasted 32 minutes. This edit is the total six minutes of action.”

“Any audio to go with it?” Gaspar wanted to know. “I’m pretty good at voice identification, if you’ve got a reasonable recording.”

Roscoe said, “There’s full audio, but these guys didn’t say much and they were careful not to speak loud enough for the microphones. We’ve punched the sound, which distorts the quality.”

“So they were familiar with the limits of your equipment,” Gaspar said.

“That’s my guess,” Roscoe said.

Kim asked, “Can we get the full video?  Maybe our people can apply some forensics you don’t have access to.”

Roscoe nodded. “We sent it to the FBI Atlanta Field Office early this morning. But I’ll have Brent get you a copy when we’re done here.”

They watched in silence for six minutes, straight through.

Kim saw the date on the tape was November 2.

Initial entry time was 12:01 a.m.

After which: Two men come in. They have a brief chat with the desk sergeant. Not Brent after all. Kim was glad. And she wondered now what he was so worried about since he wasn’t at fault.

The fake Marshall hands over a folded paper. The desk sergeant makes a phone call at 12:06 a.m. lasting less than one minute. Another brief chat at the desk. The sergeant makes another phone call at 12:11 a.m. lasting less than one minute. He shakes his head. A briefer chat follows. The sergeant puts the paper on the desk and walks to Sylvia’s cell. Sylvia is sitting as she had been in her own kitchen that day, hunched over, head down, forearms resting on her thighs, fingers pressing together rhythmically in sequence.

Sylvia looks up when the sergeant unlocks the cell. She stands, hands in front. He cuffs her, holds her right bicep, and walks her to the front. He presents her to the Marshall, who grabs her left bicep.

Sylvia and the two men walk out through the front door.

Outside, all three get in the Chevy Kim and Gaspar had seen on the Interstate median. The one with the dead body in it. The one Roscoe called Shorty, still alive at that point, is driving. The fake Marshall is sitting in the navigator seat. Sylvia is in back.

The car drives out of frame at 12:33 a.m.

Roscoe said, "Recognize them?"

Kim shook her head once. Negative. Like Roscoe, Kim knew only who the guys were not.

“Roll it again,” Gaspar said. “We’ve got questions.”

Roscoe pressed replay without taking her focus off the screen.

Kim studied details this time.

Two men stood outside, pressed the call button, waited for the door to unlock, entered the station, and approached the desk. The shorter one was dressed in a dark business suit and tie. He carried a briefcase.

He looked familiar.

The taller one was wearing a U.S. Marshall uniform, complete with hat and equipment belt. Hat shadowed his face; uniform enveloped his body. Nothing visible enough to identify.

Both men wore leather gloves.

It was November.

Costumes.

Meant to convey normalcy and conceal reality. Well done.

The desk sergeant was the other guy Kim had seen with Brent at Sylvia’s home yesterday.

“Who is that?” she asked.

“Officer Frank Kraft.”

“He’s new?”

Roscoe didn’t look up. She must have seen the video a hundred times already, but she remained focused. “About a month, I guess.”

“Break any rules about buzzing visitors in here at night?” Gaspar asked.

“Federal officers pretty much come and go as they please around here,” Roscoe said.

Touchy, like small-town cops everywhere.

The shorter guy, was the first to speak. His voice was husky in an abnormal way.

“Sergeant,” he had said,  “I’m L. Mark Newton, attorney for Sylvia Black.”  He handed Kraft a business card. “This is Marshall Wright.”

Kim registered the words. They seemed rehearsed. Had she heard the voice before?  A tenor. Midwestern. Maybe.

The second guy also presented a business card to Kraft, but said nothing.