Merciless (17 page)

But Monroe had apparently bragged about being Melly Kilraven's killer, and even blabbed about the location of the murder weapon. Was that in character? And the inmate who just happened to be in the cell with Monroe, and offered to collect evidence, was just a little too convenient to suit Jon's sense of logic.

He leaned back in his chair and his black eyes narrowed. He was fitting puzzle pieces together. He took a sip of cold coffee, grimaced and regained his train of thought.

Joceline had taken home a file on Bart Hancock. She hadn't told anyone, except Betty at the office. And a part
time secretarial worker had overheard, but her dad was a homicide detective. Unlikely that she'd be involved in a robbery.

And Betty had no reason to want to hurt coworkers. Perhaps Joceline's phone line had been tapped. No. Rourke had put equipment on her phone for a trace; he'd have found evidence of a wiretap. That ruled out the possibility that someone had listened in on her conversation. Which took the ball right back to the office, where Betty worked.

He picked up the phone and punched in Betty's extension.

“Yes?” she answered in her sweet tone.

“Hi,” he replied. “Could you come in here, please?”

“Sure thing.”

A couple of minutes later, she tapped on the door, opened it and walked in. She closed it behind her and sat down in front of the desk.

“Something wrong?” she asked.

“Joceline brought a file home with her…”

“Oh, yes,” she said, shaking her head. “She was so upset! I told her they wouldn't fire her over one mistake,” she chuckled. “And we still had an earlier version on the computer's hard drive, anyway. It was just a paper copy.”

He turned his computer around. “Can you bring it up on the screen?”

“Sure.”

She punched in the information, waited, waited,
frowned. “That's very odd. It isn't here. I know I scanned those documents into the computer.”

“What exactly was in them?” he asked.

She sat back down, still frowning, and pushed back her short, curly blond hair with a nervous hand. “I'm not absolutely sure,” she said. “There was no really sensitive information in it, just some remarks by the arresting officer about Bart Hancock's mother making threats when they took him in for questioning in a local murder case. Oh, and his daughter being under suspicion for an assault that proved fatal, but that she was never charged. She was a juvenile at the time.”

Jon sat up. “His daughter?”

“I believe it was his daughter. I don't remember anything else.” She grimaced. “Now I'm going to be in trouble, too. I don't know how that information went missing!”

“I'll talk to the SAC,” Jon said gently. “Nobody's going to blame you. But we are going to want to know how that file was removed.”

“We do background checks on all the people we hire,” Betty said worriedly. “There's no way we could have anybody here with a criminal background.”

“Not all people who commit crimes have criminal backgrounds.”

“Yes, some people never get caught.” She studied him. “I hope they catch whoever shot you,” she said bluntly, “and also the person who killed your brother's wife and child, and Mrs. Blackhawk.” She shook her head. “It seems they planned to wipe out your whole family. But why
would they threaten Joceline and her little boy? It makes no sense. She isn't part of your family.”

But she was. So was Markie. Nobody outside of the family knew. But obviously, somebody else did. He'd asked Joceline about Markie's birth certificate, but she hadn't listed a name under “Father.” On the other hand, there was the record on Jon's brush with hallucinogenic drugs the night Markie had been conceived, and the record of Markie's birth nine months later. Both those events were on records that could be accessed. Someone could have connected those dates and checked them out. His brother had done that, and had told him after the fact. It wasn't too far-fetched to think someone else could have done the same investigative work. Perhaps a law enforcement person with access to computer records. And they knew Jay Copper had somebody on the inside, somebody with a badge. They'd never found out who it was. Such a person would have access to databases of crimes that civilians couldn't access.

“You've connected something,” Betty guessed.

“Yes. All of this ties into computer records that only someone in law enforcement could get access to. Well, legally, I mean.”

She pursed her lips and frowned. “Anyone in this office with the right clearance could get to them. And the offices aren't locked during lunch hours.”

“They should be. I'll bring it up with the SAC.”

“Good idea.”

“That part-time girl we've got working for you,” he began slowly. “What do we know about her background?”

She laughed. “Phyllis? Her dad's a homicide cop at San Antonio P.D.,” she said. She pulled the computer keyboard into her lap, punched in codes and brought up Phyllis Hicks's file. She turned the screen back to Jon.

“She's working on a degree in computer programming. Her specialty is going to be cybercrime, and she wants to work here as an agent. She got the entry-level position part-time so that she could continue her college studies.”

He was looking at her photograph and wondering why it seemed so familiar. “Who's her father?”

“You know him, he worked with Gail at one time,” she added, naming Kilraven's mother-in-law. “His name is Dave Hicks. He's a police detective.”

“I remember. Mac said Hicks was at the hospital with Marquez when Rogers got shot.” He hesitated. “We never found out who shot her, either.”

“Another mystery.” She shook her head. “So many shootings. Marquez got blindsided, you recall, when he and Gail were working on the Senator Will Sanders case.”

“Everything goes back to Sanders's arrest for murder,” he mused. “Not everyone knows that he's Jay Copper's illegitimate son, and Copper is a maniac about protecting his family. All these shootings happened when the investigations began into the case that Copper was finally arrested for, the murder of a young girl who'd been to Sanders's house. But he was also charged with conspiring
to murder Dan Jones, who'd been involved in silencing the witnesses, and he was charged with masterminding the murder of Mac's wife and child.”

Betty nodded. “Wasn't there some talk about Jay Copper's sister, Bart Hancock's mother, being a mental patient? I know she spent some time in institutions before Copper started making big money as the senator's right-hand man.”

“She did. Hancock has never been normal. But I didn't think he had children.”

“If memory serves, Hancock only had one child, a daughter. He wasn't married to the child's mother, because she found out what he was doing overseas just after she had the child. Hancock's daughter would be the granddaughter of Hancock's mother, who committed suicide.”

Jon was frowning. “Do we know her name?”

“I believe it was in the missing file,” Betty said. “But I'll bet Joceline could dig that information up in a heartbeat,” she added with a grin.

“I won't take that bet,” he replied, chuckling. He picked up the phone. “Hey, Rocky, how about digging up the name of Bart Hancock's daughter for me? Yes. That's the one. You bet.” His voice had dropped to a purr. “Yes. Thanks.”

“Rocky?” Betty mused.

“It's an in-joke,” he replied. He sighed. “And you'll hear some gossip, so I'll be the first to tell you. Joceline's little boy is my son. I didn't know until a few days ago,” he added, noting Betty's shock.

“That party, where you were drugged,” Betty said at once.

“Yes.”

“I wondered. You see, Joceline is such an upright person,” she added gently. She smiled. “Better marry her.”

“The license is already applied for,” he said, and smiled. The smile faded. “First, we have to get through a funeral, though.”

“I'm so sorry,” Betty said. “I know your mother got on your nerves, but she was a good person.”

His face tautened. It was painful to discuss Cammy's death. “Yes. She was a good person.”

Betty got up. “I'll file a report about the missing information,” she said. “Good idea.”

She paused at the door. “Glad to have you back,” she said, then smiled and left.

Joceline came into the office a minute later, looking very disconcerted.

He got up and took her by the shoulders. “What is it?”

“I found out who Bart Hancock's daughter is.”

He blinked. “Excuse me?”

“You see, he didn't marry her mother. But her mother married a policeman a few years later, who adopted her daughter and gave her his name. The policeman is now a detective with San Antonio P.D. His name is Dave Hicks.”

“Yes, Betty and I were just talking about him.” He sat up straighter. “Phyllis Hicks is our part-time clerical worker who's in college part-time, but can't spell. And she's Bart Hancock's daughter? Does she know?”

“That's something we'll have to find out, I'm afraid.”

Bart Hancock's daughter worked in their office. She had access to computer records, telephone conversations and just about any other sort of information she might care to dig out. And what she didn't know, her adoptive father could find out in a heartbeat through his police contacts. He might not even know why she was asking for the information, if she was the person who'd relayed Joceline's movements, and Cammy's, to a shooter.

Jon's breath caught. “Right under our noses!”

“We can't prove anything,” she added quickly. “We don't even have a reason to charge her.”

“Plus, we can't let on that we know her background,” he replied. “And her adoptive dad works for San Antonio P.D., with access to all sorts of records.”

“Yes.”

“Well, at least now we have the beginnings of a real investigation. And some possible suspects.”

She nodded. “Life just got a lot more complicated.”

His hands were absently caressing her arms. “We were planning a graveside service, but Cammy's arrangements call for a public one.” His eyes narrowed. “I think we might want to pay very close attention to who shows up.”

“I was thinking the very same thing,” she agreed.

The funeral home's chapel was very crowded. Almost all the employees of the San Antonio FBI field office who knew Jon showed up. Half the Jacobsville, Texas, police department was on hand and so were members of various other federal agencies who knew the very popular brothers.

“I hadn't counted on so many people,” Jon told Kilraven as they sat in the front pew with Winnie and Joceline.

“Not to worry, I've got several people watching. And I've gotten court-ordered wiretaps, as well,” Kilraven replied quietly. “Now that we have some solid leads, we're going to blow the case wide-open.”

Joceline was looking over her shoulder. Her eyes almost popped. “I don't believe it!”

The others followed her wide-eyed stare. Harold Monroe was just walking in the door.

“Son of a…!” Kilraven muttered and started to get up. His expression was homicidal.

Jon pulled him back down. “Don't you dare,” he said sternly. “Cammy would come back and haunt us both!”

“He killed my baby girl,” Kilraven gritted.

“He's only been accused. Not convicted,” Jon reminded him. “You're an officer of the law. You can't touch him. Get a grip.”

Kilraven subsided, but not happily.

And then the oddest thing happened. Harold Monroe, shifty-eyed and uncomfortable, but determined, walked down the aisle to where the family was sitting and stopped in front of Kilraven.

“I didn't kill her,” he said in a low tone, glancing around to make sure he wasn't overheard.

Jon scowled. “What?”

Monroe went down on one knee. He was flushed and nervous, constantly looking around the room. “I know, you think I done it all. I ain't smart. I help some poor kids get work and you think it's bad the way I do it, but listen, I ain't never killed nobody! Especially not no little kid.”

The brothers were just staring at him, dumbfounded.

“And no ladies, either,” he added gruffly, glancing at the casket.

“You bragged to another jailbird that you killed my daughter,” Kilraven said, barely restraining the urge to
throttle the man in front of witnesses. “You even fingered the murder weapon.”

Monroe lowered his voice. “Yeah. So they'd find it. I put it where I was told to. I was scared. But you tell them smart guys to look at the prints on the shells that was in it. I didn't take the shells out, you see. I left them. I figured, when I got a chance, I'd make it right. That little girl. That poor little kid…!”

A monster with a conscience? The spellbound audience was exchanging puzzled glances.

“He said he'd kill my wife. She's all I got. She's smart. She works in a library. She never hurt nobody!”

“He who?” Jon asked curtly.

“You look at them prints on those shells. You'll see who. And he's got a kid. She's crazy like him,” he added huskily. “He took her along with him, when…” He swallowed. “She wasn't seen. He didn't want her stepdad to find out. She could get information from him, see. But you check them prints, then you find out where she was the night your little girl got shot. You check where she was when…” He glanced at the casket again, and grimaced. “Well, you'll see who. You'll see a lot.”

“You confessed on tape,” Kilraven said.

“Yeah, I did. I knew the guy was wired.”

“How?”

Monroe shifted. “I can't say. I said enough already. I set it up so I could be accused, then maybe they wouldn't think I'd told on them. I could say, you know, that I was willing to take the rap for it, if they'd leave my wife alone.”
He lowered his voice. “They'll kill me in a heartbeat if they find out I told you this.”

“Like hell they will.” Kilraven motioned to a man in a suit in the aisle. He came forward. “This is Harold Monroe,” he told the man. “If he dies, we come after you in a pickup truck at night wearing ninja gear. Get the picture?”

The man chuckled. “Yeah.”

Monroe's eyes bulged. “You're protecting me? I'm out on bond on a murder charge! I even confessed!”

“We'll get the charges dropped,” Jon said quietly. “You testify to what you know, we'll see what we can do for you on the other charges. If you stop trying to exploit kids.”

Monroe sighed. “I ain't smart enough to make money any other way. But, hey, I guess I could move to Vegas and become a pimp.” He grinned, showing a missing tooth.

Jon shook his head.

Monroe leaned forward. “You want to do some checking with San Antonio P.D.,” he added in a whisper. “The guy whose fingerprints are on the shells in that shotgun, he's related to Jay Copper. But I never told you that. You found it out.”

Kilraven nodded. “God, Monroe, this is going to ruin your rep in local criminal circles if it ever gets out.”

“You ain't telling nobody,” he said coldly. “Got that?”

Kilraven smiled.

“We'll do what we can for you,” Jon said. His eyes narrowed. “Why come forward now?”

“I was gonna let the evidence on that shotgun turn the
trick, but I was afraid it might fall through the cracks, especially when Mrs. Blackhawk got killed. Then I knew I had to say something. She was a great lady,” he said, nodding toward the casket. “See, my dad got sent to prison for murder a long time ago. He was young and his mom had cancer, and needed medicine he couldn't pay for. When he got out, your family hired him, gave him a job, trusted him when nobody else would.”

“Sloane Callum is your father?” Jon exclaimed, shocked.

“Yeah, but he never married my mom,” Monroe said. “He wanted to, but she didn't believe in that stuff. Kind of a hippie, see. Anyway, I made sure nobody knew, 'cause I didn't want him to lose his job if you knew about me.”

“He's a good man,” Jon said quietly. He was still reeling from the inefficiency of the detectives who'd done the background check on Sloane Callum and missed this connection.

“Yes, and she was a good woman,” Monroe said, nodding toward the casket again. “She made you hire him. She didn't know about me, either, but she was good to my dad.” He closed his eyes. “If I'd known they were gonna do that, I'd have told my dad, and he'd have watched her.”

“You made threatening phone calls,” Jon began.

“Not me,” Monroe replied, and with evident sincerity. “You were just doing your job when you arrested me. No call to kill a man for that. I don't hold grudges. That's why I called you, to show you I didn't hold it against you. I just wanted you to know I was out.”

“Then who…?”

“Check the prints on them shells,” Monroe said again. “That's all I'm…oh, God.”

He was looking toward the back of the church. A young blonde woman had walked in and was looking at him with cold eyes. He got to his feet, flushed.

“Get him out of here,” Jon told the undercover agent, who herded a worried Monroe out the back door of the chapel. “Quick!”

“He told us nothing,” Kilraven cautioned the others.

The blonde came up to the family, looking compassionate and sincere. “I'm so sorry about your mother,” she said, and seemed really honest.

“Thanks, Phyllis,” Jon said with a subdued smile. “We appreciate your coming to the service.”

“A lot,” Kilraven added. Winnie nodded.

“Yes,” Joceline agreed, and smiled warmly.

The woman gave them a shrewd appraisal. “Wasn't that the Monroe man who was arrested for trafficking?” she wondered. “What was he saying to you?”

“Gloating,” Jon said coldly.

“Kilraven was going to punch him, but Jon wouldn't let him,” Joceline added curtly. “After all he's done, the nerve to show up here!”

The young woman shrugged, but she couldn't hide the gleam of relief in her eyes. “Well, I just wanted to say sorry, about Mrs. Blackhawk,” she added. “Such a pity. Gosh, your family has had some real tragedies, hasn't it?”

“Some real tragedies,” Kilraven said quietly. “And now one more to add to it.” He indicated the casket.

“It must have been devastating,” she agreed. “Do they have any idea who might have done it? I mean, that Monroe man made threats, didn't he? Betty told me about the phone calls,” she added quickly.

“Lots of threats,” Jon said coldly. “And he's going to pay for them very soon.”

She smiled. “Good. I hope he does. I'll see you all at the office, then.”

“Yes,” Jon replied. “Thanks for coming.”

“You're very welcome.” She looked at the casket with an odd curiosity, smiled at them and walked back to have a seat in the back of the chapel.

The Blackhawks looked at each other, but said nothing. Jon gripped Joceline's hand tightly in his own as the music began and a clear, sweet voice began to sing Cammy's favorite gospel song, “Amazing Grace.” Despite all his best efforts to keep his emotions under control, Jon's eyes were wet as the last strong note ended on the song. But so were those of everyone else in the chapel.

 

The crime lab was far ahead of Jon when he spoke to Alice Mayfield Jones Fowler, their chief investigator, about the prints on the murder weapon.

“Sure, we got those prints first thing. Criminals always overlook something obvious. Monroe's prints were on the barrel, but someone else's prints were on the shells. Not
too smart, to put them back in the gun after they'd been fired.”

“Alice, you always put empty shells in the chamber when you store a shotgun,” Jon said gently.

“Yes, I know that. I meant that he put back the same shells he'd used, with his fingerprints all over them.” She whistled. “I was just checking to make sure you knew that.”

“Alice…”

“Anyway, yes, there were prints, and they belong to Bart Hancock.”

It was what Jon had thought all along. Harold Monroe was an idiot. He'd never killed anyone or even been connected with murders. Most criminals didn't step outside their comfort zones. Monroe bought and sold children, which was reprehensible, but he wasn't a killer.

“Now what?” Jon asked, thinking aloud.

“Now you get a search warrant…” she began. “Alice!”

“Hey, I was just thinking aloud, honest, I know the FBI doesn't need to be led by the hand in a murder investigation—” She chuckled, then sobered. “Sorry about your mother, by the way. That was such a shock. I mean, it never occurred to any of us that she'd be a target.”

“It should have. I feel guilty.”

“You're human, Blackhawk,” she said gently. “Don't beat yourself over the head.”

“Yes. I guess so.”

“If you can connect the murder weapon to Hancock,
you've got a pretty good case on circumstantial evidence. Odd thing, there were other fingerprints on the shells, just a partial. But when we ran them through the database, we didn't get even one hit.”

“That is odd,” Jon agreed, curious. “Any ideas?”

“None. If you can make Hancock talk, he might tell you. I ruled out Dan Jones, by the way. His prints weren't on the shells.”

“Even odder.”

Jon was thinking, weighing clues. “I may have something even better to cinch the case.”

“What?”

“Oh, no. I'm not telling you. Next thing I know, you'll be in Hollywood pitching a murder mystery to some producer.”

“Dang. Foiled again!”

“Are you working my mother's case?” he asked.

“Well, I thought I was, but they wouldn't let me into the hotel room,” she said. “Marquez said they had another investigator working it.”

Odd, he thought again. Marquez usually asked for Jones. Or Fowler, which was her married name. She'd married Harley Fowler, the son of a U.S. senator.

“I guess I was late on the scene.” She sighed.

“I guess.”

“But if you need help…”

“I'll call. And thanks.”

“No problem.”

He was now certain that Hancock was responsible for
Melly's death and also for Cammy Blackhawk's. What Hancock's daughter had to do with either case was still nebulous, but Jon was going to make sure the man didn't sleaze out of the new charges.

So when he phoned Rick Marquez to request copies of the police report on his mother's death, he was shocked to run into a brick wall.

“No,” Rick said at once.

“No?” Jon was taken aback. “Not yet.”

“All I want is the preliminary report…”

“Not yet.” Rick hesitated. “I know this case is personal with you. That's why I'm not giving you anything, especially crime scene photos.”

“I could get a warrant…”

“Yes, you could, and I'd find a judge to deny it. Maybe the same judge who let Monroe out on bail. Speaking of Monroe, we can't find him anywhere. Would you know anything about that?”

“Who, me?” Jon asked. “Why would I know?”

“He was speaking to you at the funeral home and then he vanished.”

“Strange,” Jon said evenly.

“Isn't it?”

Jon drew in a long breath. “I spoke to Alice Jones.”

“Alice Fowler.”

“Yes. She said they checked fingerprints on the shells in the murder weapon in the murder of my niece.”

“That's true. We're compiling evidence right now for a warrant to arrest Bart Hancock.”

“Good luck getting to him,” Jon said coldly. “Isn't he at his uncle's place in the Bahamas?”

“We heard he was.”

“Extradition is going to be a lengthy process, even with evidence.”

There was a long pause. “Yes.”

Jon felt alarm bells going off in the back of his mind. “What's going on, Marquez?” he asked suddenly.

“Why do you think something's going on?”

“Just a feeling.”

“I can't tell you anything.”

“Can't or won't?”

“Both.” There was a pause. “What?” There was muffled conversation. “Sorry, got to go. I'll keep you posted on the investigation. And I'm sorry about your mother.”