Storm Gathering (25 page)

The search for the truth had filled his soul with an urgency, an appreciation for life, an acknowledgment of mortality. For once in his life, he had not done anything wrong, but it was his past sins that now haunted him into this present, hanging over him like the shadows of skyscrapers. He would have to walk long and hard to get out from under them. But he knew as the sun moved, the shadows only grew longer.

A phone booth across the street caught Mick’s attention, and he crossed at the light. Inside, he opened up the chained phone book and turned to the yellow pages. After a few moments, he found it: Sammy Earle, Attorney-at-Law. Mick ripped out the page and stuffed it in his pocket.

Stephen Fiscall laid his hand casually next to his phone, never taking his eyes off the man who stood over him at the edge of his desk. In one sense, Fiscall had every right to call the man’s captain. But something told him that Fred Bellows was another puppet on Shep Crawford’s stage of theatrics.

And besides, if he called Bellows it would seem like Fiscall couldn’t handle Crawford, and that was the last impression he wanted to give. His ambitions in life called for him to rise to the occasion. Though he doubted he would have to face many more Shep Crawfords in his career.

This guy was one in a million.

Fiscall waited for him to finish, then offered a polite but pugnacious smile. If he needed to, he could call security very quickly. His fingers twitched beside the number pad.

“Look, Lieutenant,” Fiscall said carefully, hoping the use of his rank would help stroke the ego that apparently felt neglected. “I can understand your frustration. I hope you know that.”

Crawford cocked his head.

Fiscall had no idea what that meant, so he continued. “But the facts speak for themselves. It surprises me that you are not acknowledging this.”

“The facts.”

“Sammy Earle wasn’t there. Sammy Earle hasn’t seen the woman in months. And before you mention the flowers,” Fiscall said, raising a finger to cut him off, “we cannot find any evidence linking him to those flowers. It’s an odd occurrence; I’ll grant you that. But right now, it does more to prove Earle wasn’t involved.”

Fiscall glanced at Crawford, then casually looked away, as if something more interesting lay at the corner of the room. “They call you the Blood Man, and I understand your love for it as evidence. Granted, we have traces of blood. The only other evidence we have that something bad has happened to Miss Franks is her attempted 911 call and a cut window screen. A man was seen leaving her apartment. A man who was so drunk he ‘doesn’t remember’ the night before. Now I’m not sure why you’re so adamant against Mick Kline being our man, but I think you’re mistaken.” The word
mistaken
rolled off Fiscall’s tongue with trepidation.

“Fiscall, you are a snake. The only reason you’re after Kline is because a successful prosecution of a cop’s brother would bring you more publicity. Frankly, I think you’re scared to death that you couldn’t prosecute a savvy lawyer like Earle.”

“Your finely minced words are not going to do anything to change my mind. What I’d like you to be doing—instead of badgering me about how smart you are and how dumb I am—is to be out there hunting Kline down so I can prosecute him for kidnapping. And if you have some extra time on your hands, it’d be nice to find a body in a nearby lake.” Fiscall stood, though he still remained a foot shorter than Crawford, and smiled.

Crawford did not smile back. “And what happens to Earle? We just leave him alone; is that it?”

“Earle is not our suspect, for the hundreth time. Mick Kline is. And in case you’ve forgotten, your superiors agree with me and disagree with you. I know this has been hard for you to get used to, Crawford. Normally you’re the one calling all the shots. Unfortunately, this time it’s me.”

Fiscall observed a purple darkness encircle Crawford’s raging eyes, as if all the blood in his body were surfacing just beneath the skin of his bottom lid. But then he seemed to gather himself, and Fiscall felt the air clear a little.

Crawford smirked and lazily ran a hand through his rumpled hair. “There once was a man, many years ago, who folded to political pressure.”

“I’m not folding to anything,” Fiscall snapped.

“He may have cared about innocence and guilt. But at the end of the day, it was politics that caused him to betray his convictions.” Crawford stared at him. “And I can’t say that you care about either of those things.”

Fiscall sneered. “To whomever you’re referring, I don’t know. But you obviously have no sense of the office I hold, Lieutenant. Nor any respect for it. I have not gotten to where I am today by folding to pressures, sir. Yours or anybody else’s. Stick to what you do best, Crawford. Follow the blood trail.”

Then Crawford did something completely unexpected, causing Fiscall to nearly gasp. He stuck out his hand for Fiscall to shake.

Fiscall looked at it as if it were a weapon. In order to shake it, Fiscall’s hand would have to leave the security of the phone behind, if only for a few seconds. The absurdity of fearing a homicide detective danced across Fiscall’s intellect. Crawford was quirky and egotistical. But that was it, right? Fiscall licked his lips and offered his hand, trying to keep it from shaking.

Crawford squeezed it, holding it hostage for several uncomfortable seconds.

Fiscall gazed into the abyss of his eyes.

“You do what you have to do,” Crawford said and then let go of his hand.

Fiscall took a step backward, though his desk was between them. He tried to project confidence, holding his head up and swelling his chest with a deep breath.

Crawford had turned and walked to the door. Before leaving, he glanced back at Fiscall and said, “Pilate.”

“Excuse me?”

“Pontius Pilate. That’s who I was referring to.”

Fiscall shook his head. “I didn’t realize you were a religious man, Crawford.”

“I’m not.”

Mick walked through the revolving door of the plaza building and entered an overly air-conditioned lobby sparkling with gold decor and shiny white marble.

Across the room two security guards chatted, watching an attractive woman shuffle through her briefcase. To one side of the lobby were four elevators surrounded by floor-to-ceiling mirrors. Among the business professionals Mick stood out, but he knew not too badly. He was sure there were many lawyers in the building with clients who looked worse than he did.

He waited around until he could grab an elevator by himself. One opened up, several people rushed out, and Mick slipped in, double punching the Close Door button, though he never thought those buttons ever worked very well.

The elevator swiftly lifted him to his eleventh-floor destination. In the hallway, Mick noticed three different suites, but there was no question which was Earle’s. A large, gold-plated sign, with letters about two feet high, read Earle, Jacobs, and Welleston. All big-name attorneys in one of the best-known law firms in Dallas.

Mick had no game plan, just determination. He wasn’t even sure what he was going to say once he got to Earle . . . if he got to him. And he knew there was probably little chance of his leaving this building without handcuffs around his wrists or bullets through his gut.

But sometimes the truth was worth a high cost.

He opened the glass door. A large, gaudy reception area greeted him, minus the receptionist. Mick noted that the office seemed unusually quiet. A large silver digital clock read 12:22. Lunchtime.

Two hallways led in opposite directions from the reception area, and Mick had no choice but to guess. He turned right and passed a small office, where a man was eating a sandwich, oblivious to anything other than his bologna. A woman approached him, but her nose was buried in a folder, and she never looked up as she passed him.

He came to a door with Earle’s name on it. A medium-sized reception area was to the right, apparently for his secretary. Her computer was on, with a word- processing document on the screen. To his surprise, Earle’s door was open. Mick walked straight in, his fists clutched and his teeth grinding.

The office was empty. Earle’s laptop sat on his desk, closed, and his chair was swiveled toward the window. A small cabinet sat nearby, and on top of it was a McDonald’s Monopoly game, pieces neatly glued in place. For as garish as the letters were that announced his name on his door, Earle’s office was comparatively reserved, with secondhand-looking furniture and mediocre office equipment. The aqua-colored wall art looked to be purchased from a hotel auction.

Mick quietly shut the door, then went to Earle’s desk, trying to find some kind of link to Taylor Franks. He opened desk drawers, sifting through papers and junk, but nothing caught his eye. Mick thought it odd that the man didn’t even have any photographs in his office. In fact, he saw nothing at all personal about Sammy Earle here. The office was frighteningly void of any human touch.

Mick doubted he would find any evidence here anyway. A slick lawyer like Earle wasn’t going to leave anything lying around. Mick sat in Earle’s chair and stared at the laptop, his fingers playing with the Release button on its edge.

Maybe a letter? Mick glanced at the closed door, then without further hesitation, snapped open the laptop. The screen blinked to life and was open to some legal form in WordPerfect. Mick opened the folders and scanned through them, but they all seemed to be business related.

And then he heard the doorknob click.

Mick slammed the laptop shut and shot to his feet.

Even after eating brunch with Jenny, Aaron still couldn’t shake the restless, simmering anger. Things were not adding up, questions were being raised that had no answers, and yet the prosecutors and detectives seemed to indicate they had all the evidence they needed.

Aaron’s confidence about Mick had wavered, especially after he ran. But the more questions that opened up, the more Aaron began to suspect that something strange was going on. What that was, he didn’t know. But after talking with Liz, Aaron’s suspicions were quickly falling on Sammy Earle. How was he going to get everybody else to pay attention, though?

Aaron had paced the halls of his home long enough. If the cops were going to tail him, then so be it. He didn’t have anything to hide, and Crawford’s threats didn’t scare him. Nobody else was looking under rocks. Aaron decided it was his time to play the snake.

Getting in his pickup, he drove to Taylor Franks’ apartment. The yellow tape had been taken down, probably at the request of the apartment manager. Aaron walked to the manager’s office, who luckily recognized him and agreed to open the apartment for him.

As he unlocked the door, Chuck asked, “Any word on Miss Franks?”

Aaron shook his head. “Unfortunately, no.”

“This world, it’s so nuts.” He opened the door. “Here you go. Just let me know before you leave so I can lock it.”

“Thanks, Chuck.” Aaron entered the apartment and looked around. Nothing had been touched. He coughed just to clear the eerie silence.

He wandered around the edges of the living room, then found a collection of photo albums in a small chest near the television. Sitting on the floor, he flipped through the first one, looking at pictures of Taylor’s childhood, many taken in front of a trailer home. Her mother’s eyes, narrow with tiredness, made her smile looked forced. Taylor, if he guessed correctly who she was from the photos, looked like an energetic kid whom nobody had told she was starting out rough. A wide smile brightened her torn and dirty clothes. Her hair was stuck into a tangled ponytail.

In the next photo album, apparently from Taylor’s high school years, her cheery eyes were sparked by something else . . . defiance? In many of the pictures beer cans and cigarettes were in plain view.

The third photo album looked to be the most recent. Only about ten pages were filled. There was a picture with Liz Lane and another one with what might have been her coworkers.