Silver Justice (20 page)

“You’ll be begging for it come Friday night, baby,” he hurled back, grabbing his crotch with his free hand.

The blonde made a gesture with her little finger, and the two cosmetologists cackled with glee.

“Dykes,” he muttered and then continued on his way. Plenty more where that came from.

As he approached his apartment block, he spied a government sedan with a giveaway whip antenna parked in front. His alcohol-ravaged synapses shrieked a warning as he slowed momentarily, trying to assess the situation. A pair of serious-looking men in suits were descending the stairs from the front entrance, surveying the street. One of them held a sheet of paper in his hand with a series of photographs on it – a mug shot and a driver’s license scan.

Rodney felt a tingle of apprehension in his gut. Instead of making the turn towards his place, he kept on walking, picking up the pace without seeming obvious.

As he reached the far end of the block, a voice behind him called out, “Rodney Everin. Stop. We need to talk to you.”

He kept moving, ignoring the man, hoping they’d think they’d gotten the wrong guy.

“Rodney. FBI. Stop where you are.”

That was all he needed to hear. Feds at his digs. Probably something to do with the deal he’d been trying to set up, to get a half-kilo of meth fronted to him so he could sell to his bar buddies. That must have triggered something – maybe the whole thing was some kind of sting, where he was being set up.

He debated stopping as instructed then thought about the marijuana in his pants pocket and the quarter gram of meth next to it – if they searched him, he would be going back to prison, no mistake, even if he hadn’t done anything on the half-kilo yet. The switchblade he carried for self-protection would be icing on the cake.

He made his decision and bolted, rounding the corner and sprinting across the street. If he could make it to the second block from the park, he could lose them – or at least jettison the dope so they’d come up empty on a search. Then all they’d have was his word against whoever’s. He hadn’t done anything yet, so wasn’t guilty of anything but being stupid or drunk when he was talking to the dealer. There was no law against being a drunken idiot that he knew of.

The man who’d called after him raced for the car, and his partner took off in pursuit at a run – he’d been no mean athlete in college and even after seven years he could keep up with the best.

Rodney swung around another corner and tossed his sack into a garbage can. The weight wasn’t worth the ten bucks the beer and sandwich represented. He fished in his pocket for the dope as he ran and palmed the little baggie as he poured on the speed. Startled pedestrians gave him a wide berth, the sound of his work boots thumping against the pavement all the warning they needed. Nobody wanted to get involved in something they didn’t understand, and an adult male doing the four-minute mile down the sidewalk was unusual enough to warrant caution.

“Rodney!”

The voice behind him sounded like it was a hundred yards back. He hadn’t seen his pursuer when he’d ditched the beer, but there was no mistaking him now. He still needed to lose the drugs, though, and the switchblade. He’d be sad to see the knife go – they were pricey these days, even for the crap blades from Mexico. Maybe he could recover it later.

A group of teens on a stoop cheered him on as he ran past them, whooping in delight at this unexpected entertainment on an otherwise boring day. One took up the pursuit on his skateboard for a few short yards then thought better of it when he heard the agent pounding down the sidewalk behind him.

He collided with a couple of metal garbage cans, spilling the contents into the gutter as he stumbled through the trash and recovered his footing. He ventured a glance over his shoulder and saw that the fed was gaining. Seeing his pursuer bearing down on him, he darted into the street, trying to time the traffic so he could put some distance between himself and the agent.

He almost made it.

The Dodge Ram crew cab slammed into him, flipping him into the air. He struck the pavement with a wet thunk, bouncing like a ragdoll for a few yards before rolling to a halt. A Chrysler screeched to a stop a few inches from his head, and the last thing he registered was the warm wet flow of blood streaming down his nose onto the pavement.

~ ~ ~

“What do you mean, he ran?” Silver demanded.

“Took off like a scared rabbit when he saw us. We advised him that we were FBI and demanded that he stop, but he just tore away like we were shooting at him,” the voice on the phone reported.

“This was supposed to be an informational interview. Low pressure.”

“I know. But he had a different idea.”

“Which hospital did they take him to?”

“University. He should be there by now. We’re on our way over, as soon as we get finished with the local cops. They’re dragging their feet on filling out the reports. You know how they like to bust our chops.”

“How badly was he hurt?” Silver asked.

“Pretty badly. The paramedics gave him a fifty-fifty chance. He hit the road hard. Man against truck doesn’t usually wind up with the man winning. Stupid bastard.”

“And you have no idea why he ran?”

“You mean other than he was an unemployed ex-con with no visible means of support who could still afford a little weed and some methamphetamines? My guess is that he was up to something and thought we’d caught him. Or he was afraid we’d take him in and find the dope and he’d back in lockup. And it could be he’s our killer – we’ll need to get a warrant for his place and search it, see if we can find anything incriminating.”

“Probable cause is going to be tough,” Silver said, “but I’ll see what I can swing.”

“He did run from us.”

“Yeah, but you know as well as I do that a decent lawyer could argue that, given his history, he panicked. Acting guilty isn’t the same as being guilty – something about reasonable doubt and presumption of innocence. But I’ll do what I can. Let me call over to the hospital and see what I can find out.”

“Okay. Soon as we can break loose from here, we’ll be there.”

“10-4.” Silver terminated the call, then pulled up a number on her computer and dialed it. After a few minutes of being shunted from person to person, she got the emergency room nurse, who was willing to take a few moments out from her busy schedule to give her an update.

“We just wheeled him into radiology for a CT, and then he’s going straight to the OR. Looks like massive intracranial bleeding – his pupils were non-responsive when he came in. Legs are both broken, his hip, most of his ribs…arms have compound fractures…I don’t think he’s going to be doing any triathlons any time soon.”

“Sounds like he’s lucky to be alive.”

“I don’t know that I’d use the word lucky. But he’s still breathing.”

“I know it’s probably a stupid question, but I’ll ask anyway. What are the chances that he pulls through and regains consciousness?”

“Sweetheart, I have three lottery tickets in my purse for the next big one, and I’d guess my chances of quitting this job and living in the South of France next month are better. But I never said that. Only a doctor can answer that question in an official capacity.”

“I completely understand. Listen, I appreciate it. My men will be there shortly. I’d really like it if you could take out a minute and fill them in. Could I ask you to do that?”

“No problem. I’ll just look for the G-men in the lobby. Shouldn’t be too hard to spot among this bunch.”

Silver hung up and cursed her luck. This had gone from routine to disastrous in nothing flat. And they didn’t even know if the victim was their man. The odds were far greater that this was just an ugly confluence of events and the killer was still out there planning his next murder.

The worst part was they might never know. If the killings stopped abruptly, but they found no evidence Rodney was the serial…she didn’t even want to go down that road.

She balked at the prospect of having to explain to Brett what had happened, then decided to get it over with and made her way to his office. That was some hunch she’d had. So far, at least one man down, possibly a vegetable – or dead – and nothing to show for it.

~ ~ ~

The big Chevrolet sedan pulled up to the curb outside the shabby home in Brooklyn. A man and woman got out, their business suits incongruent with the neighborhood. They checked the address and ascended the stairs to the small porch after doing a quick scan of the quiet street. The woman punched the doorbell, and they waited for someone to answer.

A cautious voice sounded from behind the weathered door. “Who is it?”

“Mr. Jarvis?” the woman asked.

“Who wants to know?”

“Federal Bureau of Investigation, sir.”

There was a pause from inside.

“FBI? Little late for April Fool’s Day, isn’t it?”

“This isn’t a joke, Mr. Jarvis.”

More silence.

“Lemme see your badges. Hold them up to the peephole.”

The two agents removed slim leather wallets, doing as asked. After thirty seconds the door swung open four inches, a security chain holding it in place. Piercing blue eyes studied the pair.

“What does the FBI want with me?” Howard grumbled, distrust evident in his expression.

“We would like to ask you a few questions, sir.”

“About?”

“The fire that took your wife’s life.”

“What? Three years after the fact? Little late, aren’t you? And why federal interest?”

“Sir, would it be possible to come inside?” the female agent asked.

“All due respect, no, I don’t really want federal agents in my house.”

“Well, we need to talk to you.”

The eyes pored over them both.

“Shit. All right. Give me a second. I’m afraid I’m not exactly set up for visitors. The maid and butler quit last week, and it’s been hard keeping the place shipshape since then…”

The door slammed, and they heard the sound of the chain being fiddled with. It swung open again, and they were face to face with their subject. Five ten, medium-length brown hair going to gray, mustache, wearing a long-sleeved blue polo shirt and loose jeans.

He motioned for the agents to come in and turned, moving through the narrow hall to the living room, the scarred hardwood floor creaking under his weight.

“Close the door behind you. Though I’m guessing I’ll be safe from the local thieves if you two are here. You want some water or coffee? I’m afraid I don’t have much else.”

“No, sir, thank you. We’d just like to ask a few questions,” the female agent said.

“Come on, then, and take a seat.” He gestured to a beaten couch, sagging in the middle.

“Thanks.” They sat down, and he lowered himself into a cracking La-Z-Boy.

“So to what do I owe the honor of two genuine FBI agents visiting with me in beautiful Brooklyn? You say you want to talk about the fire? What do you want to know that isn’t in the reports? And why now?”

The male agent leaned forward. “Mr. Jarvis–”

“Please. Call me Howard.”

“Howard. I’m Agent Border and this is Agent Torres. We’re just following up on some routine information and wanted to hear about the fire first hand.” He cocked his head in the direction of the female agent and placed a small recorder on the coffee table. “Do you mind if I record this? Makes it way easier than trying to take notes.”

“Routine information?” Howard seemed relaxed, but curious, and somewhat puzzled. He waved an indifferent hand at the small device. “Sure. Go ahead. I’ve already been through this so many times…”

Border depressed the record button and murmured into the condenser microphone. “April nineteenth, three p.m., interview with Howard Jarvis.” He looked up, returning to Howard. “Yes. I can appreciate that. It was a terrible tragedy. Can you tell us what happened, in your own words?”

“My wife was sick, on a lot of meds. We ran into some financial difficulty when the markets crashed and wound up losing the house to the bank. Couldn’t afford it – that happens a lot these days. Anyway, she was stubborn as a mule and fought me every step of the way on preparing to move somewhere else. I had no idea what she was planning. I was in New York for the day, trying to line up somewhere for us to live with my contacts. When I got back to the house, it was almost completely gutted, and the firefighters were battling the blaze, trying to put it out. Long story short, she didn’t want to lose her house and decided that if she couldn’t live there, then nobody could. We’d had it for twenty-eight years. It wasn’t the Taj Mahal, but it was our place, and she loved it.”

“Yes. Well, what about the note?” Agent Torres asked softly.

“That’s how we knew what happened. She’d dropped me off at the station so I could take the train into town. I saw a piece of paper folded on the dashboard, so while the firemen were trying to put out the fire, I opened the car and got it. You already know what it said… You have to understand. She wasn’t rational, and the stress from our changing circumstances pushed her over the edge. I blame the medication. She was on everything you could think of for her problems.”

“I understand. And your daughter…”

“That day was a tragedy all around. You know about her. It’s in all the reports. Insurance, police, fire…”

The agents exchanged glances, and the woman began asking the questions.

“Mist– Howard. This may seem like an odd series of questions, but bear with us. Can you tell where you were three nights ago?”

“Huh? Three nights ago?”

“That’s right.”

The distrustful look returned to Howard’s face. “What is this?”

“Please. Just answer the question.”

“Why? Am I a suspect or something? I’ve seen enough TV to know that when the law shows up asking questions about where you were that doesn’t go anywhere good.”

“No, sir, you’re not a suspect. We’ve been assigned to determine your whereabouts because of a similar fire. That’s all. It’s really nothing more than a checklist interview so we can mark you as spoken to.” Torres sounded reasonable and friendly, as she had been trained to be during these sorts of interrogations.