Don't Know Jack (20 page)

Kraft looked the cards over and placed them on the desk.

“What can I do for you?” Kraft asked. Deep baritone with a lisp.

“We have a federal court order for Sylvia Black,” Shorty said. “We’re here to collect her.”

Marshall Wright reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a tri-folded white paper. No envelope. He handed the paper to Kraft. Kraft opened the paper and read it.

“I didn’t know Mrs. Black was being released tonight,” Kraft said. Was there any surprise in his tone?  “I’ll need to check with my Chief.”

Shorty said, “There’s nothing to check. It’s all there in black and white.”

The Marshall said, “We have to get her to Chicago by 3:30 a.m. We miss that flight in Atlanta, we’ll all be in a world of trouble, you know?”

Kraft nodded. “Sure. I understand. It’ll only take a minute.”  He picked up the phone and placed the first call. At 12:06 a.m.

Gaspar asked Roscoe, “Did he actually call you?”

She said, “What the hell do you think?”

Gaspar said, “I think he tried and didn’t get you. Why not?”

“I was involved in something else at the time.”

Gaspar didn't press her. Good. There would be a time for that, but not now.

Kraft hadn’t left a message. He had said, “I’ll need to call again.”

And the short man had gotten a little nasty at that point, while keeping his voice down. Kim recognized the trick. She’d seen it before. Very effective for confounding voice identification. The end of his sentence was: “If your Chief has any questions, she can call us. Remind her that Federal judges can’t be challenged on matters of national security.”

Kraft nodded, as if the statement was as obvious as wet water. Still, to his credit, he made the second call. Same result.

Gaspar didn’t ask Roscoe why she failed to pick up the second time. Nor did Kim mention that Shorty was flat wrong on the law and Kraft should have known better.

On the tape Shorty looked at his watch and spoke again. Insistent words, nastier tone, but still controlled. Definitely rehearsed. He said, “We can take you into custody, too, son. Anybody here with you?”

Kraft said, “No. Just me.”

Gaspar actually groaned. Roscoe shot him a withering stare.

Shorty’s practiced coercion got heavier. “You don’t want to leave your station unattended, do you?”

Now Kraft seemed unsure, and worried.

Shorty changed his tactics to the reasonable approach. “Look, officer, you have our cards and our numbers. You have the order. Your chief can follow up when you reach her. What’s the problem?”

Kraft wavered, undecided. Body language conflicted, but leaning toward refusal.

The Marshall broke the deadlock. He stood tall and conveyed a simultaneously threatening and brothers-in-arms posture. “We’re on a deadline, officer. We can’t wait until your chief gets her shuteye. Shall we take Mrs. Black alone, or do you want to come along?  Either way is fine with me.”

Kraft spent four more seconds thinking it over before he said, “I guess I’d better stay here.”

The Marshall pulled his handcuffs off his equipment belt and held them out. “Do you want me to come with you?”

Kraft said, “I can handle it.”

He snagged the cuffs, left the desk, and headed toward Sylvia’s cell.

Kim asked, “Any conversation between these two while Kraft is gone on the full recording?”

“None at all,” Roscoe replied.

Kraft walked into the cell block. He pressed the release button on the wall and Sylvia’s door popped open. She looked up, faced the camera, and flashed her model’s smile.

“Time to go, Sylvia,” Kraft said. Sylvia stood up, smoothed her clothes, patted her hair to be sure it remained in place.

Gaspar asked, “These two know each other?”

Roscoe replied, “Of course.”

Kraft said, “I have to put the cuffs on.”

Sylvia held her hands out in front, palms together. Kraft put the cuffs on her wrists. They walked together out of her cell.

Sylvia showed no surprise.

And she asked no questions.

“Did you edit any of Sylvia’s responses?” Kim asked.

Roscoe met Kim’s gaze for the first time since the video began.

She said, “No.”

“She expected this, then.”

“That’s how I figure it,” Roscoe said.

On the tape Kraft walked Sylvia back to the desk in silence and handed off his prisoner to the Marshall. Sylvia’s face lit up. The Marshall’s answering expression remained concealed by his hat. He took Sylvia’s left arm without comment.

Shorty said, “Again, sergeant, have your chief call us if she has any questions. We’ll be out of touch, off and on, until we land at O’Hare. After that, we’ll be continuously available.”

Kraft was clearly unhappy, but he said, “OK.”

Hat on, head down, the Marshall led Sylvia toward the exit. He pressed on the door with his forearm, but it didn’t open.

Shorty, five steps behind, turned back to Kraft and said his last words, “Can you buzz us out?”

Kraft returned to his desk and pressed the lock release.

The Marshall’s gloved hand pushed the glass door open. He herded Sylvia through the gap. Shorty followed.

The green Chevy was parked at the curb, engine running. The Marshall opened the sedan’s back door. Sylvia looked back at the station and raised her cuffed hands and waved. Then she ducked into the back seat. The Marshall reached into his pocket and pulled something out. He handed it to Sylvia and closed her door. He turned away and got into the Chevy’s front passenger seat without showing his face to the station’s outdoor cameras.

Taking probably his last steps, too, Shorty walked around the trunk and got into the driver’s seat.

The car pulled away from the station at 12:33 a.m.

Kim figured they felt elated at first. Maybe at 12:34 a.m. they were whooping it up inside the Chevy, with a bigger celebration planned for later. When they reached their destination. Which was probably not Atlanta and most certainly not Chicago.

They’d have reached the cloverleaf between ten and fourteen minutes later. Say three minutes to pull the car off to the side of the road, intending to switch to a replacement vehicle. No reason to park there otherwise.

Shoot the short guy in the head, get out of the Chevy, raise the hood, get into the second vehicle, and leave the scene.

Maybe five minutes.

Which put Shorty's time of death between eighteen and twenty-two minutes after the video ended.

Call it 12:51 a.m. to 12:55 a.m.

Almost exactly the time Finlay should have shown up in the JFK Hudson Hotel.

But hadn’t.

Which, of course, the boss already knew.

CHAPTER TWENTY TWO

Margrave, Georgia

November 2

11:54 a.m.

The recording ended for the second time and Roscoe waited for a reaction. She didn’t get one. So she stood up and patted her equipment belt to confirm all her stuff was there, and she grabbed her car keys, and she moved toward the door.

At the threshold she turned back to Kim and Gaspar, both still seated.

She asked, “Are you coming?”

Kim looked at Gaspar, felt the fatigue in her bones and saw his exhaustion. She knew what he was thinking. Why go back out there?  He’d already seen the body; she’d already seen the car. They could get full reports later. No need to traipse around in the weeds again. What they both needed was sleep. Decent food. Time to figure this thing out. Before they made a mistake they couldn’t fix.

All of which would have to wait, Kim realized. She said, “We’ll follow in our own car. We’ll be there in twenty.”

Roscoe said, “No, you’ll ride with me. We’ll talk on the way.”

She left the room before either Kim or Gaspar could protest.

“So, Boss Lady, do we obey?” Gaspar asked. He stood, yawned, stretched. Eased his pain. He wasn’t fooling her. His leg, and his side. He’d been sitting too long. He had to be hurting.

“Apparently there’s more than one boss lady here,” Kim said. “And you heard her. So move your ass.”  She put a smile on her face. And in her voice. She was Number One. It was up to her to set the tone. Admitting exhaustion wasn’t the way to start. Or defeat. She walked out, following Roscoe, Gaspar behind her for once.

Gaspar said, “I don’t suppose we could stop at Eno’s Diner on the way?  For pancakes and country ham?”

“I’m guessing not.”

“In that case, wait up.”  He ducked into the break room and came back out carrying two donuts.

“For me?” Kim asked, and grabbed one from his hand before he could stop her. “You shouldn’t have.”

“I didn’t,” he said.

#

Roscoe was waiting at her reserved parking space, next to her navy Town Car. She got in and started the engine. Kim took the navigator’s position, leaving the back seat for Gaspar. She fastened her seat belt and used her right hand to hold the shoulder harness away from her neck.

Roscoe drove with the precise assurance of a woman who knew every chink in the local asphalt. She used her bubble light, but no siren. Other vehicles moved respectfully aside and she left them in her wake. She covered half the distance without speaking. Kim waited. Gaspar waited, too, for once.

Then seven miles from the cloverleaf, Roscoe asked, “What time did you find the body?”

Kim said nothing.

Gaspar said, “What?”

“No more games,” Roscoe said. Her tone was level and determined. She lifted off the accelerator and the big car slowed. “You must take me for a complete moron.”

“I wish you were a moron,” Kim said. “You’d be easier to handle.”

Roscoe glanced at Gaspar in the rear view mirror. “We all know Harry Black wasn’t shot two hours before Sylvia called 911. Plenty of time for you to clean up that crime scene, too. Good job, by the way. We didn’t find much.”

Gaspar said, “You’re on the wrong track, chief. We don’t know anything about Harry Black. We saw his body for the first time when you did.”  He raised his right hand, palm out, first two fingers up, last two held down by his thumb. “Scout’s honor.”

“Oh, please,” Roscoe said. “You wouldn’t know a boy scout if he ran up and bit you on the leg.”

“Wrong,” Gaspar said. “I
was
a boy scout. An Eagle Scout, to be exact. Matter of public record. Check it out if you don’t believe me.”

Roscoe slowed the car to a crawl and then stopped on the shoulder of the county road. Miles of emptiness stretched in all directions. She put the transmission in park, unbuckled her shoulder harness, and turned toward her captured prey.