The Watchman (10 page)

This was one of those times.

Since I'd entered the picture, Rachel's problems had worsened, and the trail to Abigail's killer still lay cold as the dark side of the moon.

Lord, a little divine guidance here would be appreciated.

My flight neared its destination, and a view of the Golden Gate Bridge came through the window. The sight almost made the bad flight worthwhile.

Almost.

I hurried away from the still-crying infant and bypassed the luggage carousel. A rental awaited me at the agency counter.

Maneuvering my way through morning traffic to the outskirts of the city took two hours. Once on the interstate, the trip to the prison took less than an hour.

 



 

San Quentin Prison, San Quentin, California

San Quentin, built in 1852, still held the title of California's oldest and largest prison. The grounds covered more than four hundred acres. A guard at the entrance pointed me to the reception area, where I gave my name and explained I would like to see the warden.

Inside the prison, another guard glanced at a computer screen. “Is the warden expecting you, Mr. Spade?”

I shook my head.

“I'm sorry, but he doesn't see anyone without an appointment. Would you like to talk to his secretary? She handles all his engagements.”

“I'm a private investigator and I need some information on a former inmate. Is there anyone else I can speak to?”

His brow furrowed for a moment. “Let me check something.” He held up a finger. “Just a minute.” He rolled his chair around, back turned to me, and pings sounded as he punched in an extension number.

Seconds later, he hung up. “The assistant warden will see you.”

After a short while, a fierce-looking biker type with a huge “Mom” tattoo on his forearm led me down a long hallway and knocked on a door marked, “John Tyler, Assistant Warden.”

From the other side a gruff voice called, “Come on in.”

John Tyler hadn't missed any meals lately. In his fifties, stout and balding, he had a hard time fitting his girth into the government-issue chair. I introduced myself and handed him my card. He scanned it and then looked back at me. “That your real name?” He chuckled, making his stomach ripple like waves rolling to shore. “Wasn't that a fictitious character in an old movie?”

“Yeah, Humphrey Bogart,
The Maltese Falcon.
What can I tell you? There are a lot of Sam Spades out there.
”

Formalities over, Tyler tucked the card in his desk. “Have a seat, Mr. Spade, and tell me what I can do for you.”

With the most pleasant expression at my disposal, I explained the reason for coming. “I'm investigating the disappearance of Abigail Marshall Armstrong. Ben Marshall, a former inmate here, was her ex-husband, and it's my understanding he died in a riot some time back. Any information you can give me on the man would be appreciated.”

“How far back? More than seven years?”

I nodded.

Tyler jerked his thumb at the computer on the credenza behind his desk. “Files are only stored on our computers for seven years after a death or release.” He picked up the phone and asked someone to bring in Marshall's file.

We waited in silence until the biker-trustee walked in and handed Tyler a folder. He flipped through the papers and then slapped the file shut. “You're in luck. I don't need the documents to give you the details on this bird. I was guard captain back then. A meaner piece of humanity never walked God's green earth. The day he died they held a celebration in Hell.”

“There's no doubt he died in the riot?”

“None at all. There wasn't much left of him after the fire, but we were able to match some of his fingerprints and his dental records.”

“What did they send him up for?”

“He was a two-bit lawyer running a sleazy baby racket using pregnant teens and selling the babies for top dollar. He forced the girls to agree to the adoptions. After a while, enough of the women came forward to get a conviction. The state gave him ten years, and the California Bar jerked his license to practice law. I'm sure he was into other shady deals the state never nailed him for. He was living very high on the hog.”

Tyler leaned back in his chair. “Prison turned out to be his element. He ruled the cellblock––terrorized and maimed the other inmates. No one mourned his passing.”

“You couldn't stop the abuse?”

Tyler shook his head as if agitated by the memory. “Nobody would file a complaint. Without a viable witness, our hands were tied. The convicts knew what would happen if they squealed on him. The prisoners called Marshall and his three cronies the Four Horsemen, with good reason.”

“What happened to Marshall's buddies? Are they still here?”

“Two were killed here and one escaped during the riot, Ralph Jenson. We never caught him.”

“Marshall's ex-wife, Abigail, disappeared three years ago. Off the record, do you think Jenson could be responsible?”

“I wouldn't put anything past that guy.” Tyler removed his glasses. He pinched the bridge of his nose with his forefinger and thumb. “I heard she divorced Marshall soon after he arrived here. He went on a rampage when he got the news. That might have been enough reason for Jenson to kidnap or kill her––to avenge his pal. Convicts have a warped sense of loyalty. But I'm surprised it took him so long.”

“She moved to another state under a different name. Do you have a picture of Jenson?”

“Yeah, but it's an old one.” He picked up the phone again. Minutes later, the trustee returned with the picture. Jenson's eyes in the mug shot were wild, crazy, and mean.

I thanked him, shook his hand, and returned to my car.

Driving away, I considered Jensen as Abigail Armstrong's murderer. It seemed a plausible lead. Had he really waited so long to kill her? Had it been an accident he'd found her that night, or had he searched for her? I doubted convict loyalty lasted so long, but I couldn't eliminate the possibility.

Before crossing the prison property line my cell phone jingled
The Star Spangled Banner.

I'm a patriot. Shoot me.

Bill Hand's voice sounded in my ear. “The police arrested Rachel and took Cody. She's in the Hebron County jail.”

 

 

 

 

8

 

San Quentin Prison, San Quentin, California

My worst case scenario had just happened. “Bill, where did they take Cody?”

Bill moaned. “They turned him over to his father. After you gave Rachel the safe combination, she wanted to get the money to repay Mom. We've told Rachel a thousand times we're providing Christian charity, but she's too independent to accept it. I let Rachel talk me into letting her borrow my truck. Cody begged to go with her, and she caved. It's my fault. I should have known better.” Bill paused for a moment. “She used her one call to phone me. She opened the safe without any problems, but as she and Cody drove away, a squad car pulled her over. They were watching for her to come back.”

“Did anyone get your name or ask where you live?”

“I gave my name, but they didn't seem overly concerned when I told them I was Rachel's pastor. They didn't ask for my address. They just seem pleased with themselves for having nabbed her.” His voice choked. “Mom and I drove to the police station as fast as we could. She took my truck from the pound and drove it home. After they let me see Rachel, she became hysterical, knowing Harry had Cody. She stashed the money in Cody's backpack before the cops ordered her out of the vehicle. I stayed with Rachel until they made me leave.”

I shifted the phone to my other ear. “They wouldn't let you post bail?”

“The judge refused to set bail.”

“Did you call Jake? Couldn't he do anything?”

“I spoke to Jake after I'd talked to Rachel. He came down, but the judge still refused to consider bail. Jake said London is pulling strings to keep her there.” The tone of Bill's voice turned harsh. “According to Jake, they can hold Rachel until the case comes to trial.”

I glanced at my watch. “I'm on my way to the airport now. I'll get the first flight to Salt Lake. A friend owns a private plane, and I'll ask him to pick me up. I'll check on Rachel and then see what I can do about Cody.”

“Won't that be dangerous since there's a warrant out on you, as well?”

“Don't worry. I'll be able to get in to see Rachel for a few minutes.”

I couldn't tell Bill I didn't need help to get into the jail.

 



 

Salt Lake City Airport, Utah

George Thomas waited for me on a spot near the runway when my flight landed in Salt Lake. He stood by his plane and tugged his ball cap lower over his brow. His skin was the color of rich, brown coffee beans, his eyes black as the tarmac. A wide grin, filled with gleaming white teeth, greeted me. “Hop in.” George is a man of few words.

His sidekick, Too-Cute, better known as Tooie, jumped into the backseat when I climbed aboard. George rescued Tooie, an ugly mixture of Boxer and Pit-Bull, after seeing him on an animal cruelty report on the local news. The mutt had logged more air miles than Charles Lindbergh.

We landed in Hebron thirty minutes later, and George drove me to a car rental agency. Jake's wheels still resided in long-term parking in Utah. I picked an inconspicuous Honda Civic, using George's credit card. He knew I'd be good for it.

My cash flow was dwindling fast after my flight to California, and I couldn't use my own credit cards.

On the way to the county jail, I took a chance and swung by my office to pick up a camcorder. If things went bad, it might be useful. Before I closed the office door, I touched the framed, printed slogan on the wall—Plan ahead. Pray ahead. A personal maxim that guided my life.

At least the pray-ahead part.

 



 

Hebron County Jail, Hebron, Wyoming

Urgency squeezed my gut as I pulled into the empty slot at the county jail. Invisible, I hurried to the third floor ward.

The entry to the women's cells was long and rectangular, with the usual gray cement walls. Jessie Bolton sat at the guard desk on my left at the narrow end of the room. A coffeemaker and small refrigerator resided on a built-in counter behind the security station.

Inside the cellblock, I spotted Rachel in a corner four-bunk cell. On a lower bunk, a dirty, homeless woman lay asleep. Rachel huddled on the opposite bed, arms wrapped around her body, her eyes red and swollen. For the moment, she appeared OK. Relieved, I headed back to the exit, just as the block door clanged open. Jessie let Harry London inside. He strode down the aisle and stopped in front of Rachel. Jessie lingered near the cell entrance.

I stopped and waited.

Harry stationed himself in front of the unit, arms folded across his chest. “You look well, Rachel. Bars become you.”

Rachel's chin went up. “I'm very well. Better than I've been since I met you, despite my new housing accommodations. I don't have to worry about my husband using me for a punching bag.”

“We'll see how well you are after a few months in here with the cream of society. I can smell your roommate from here.”

“I prefer her company to yours. At least she doesn't beat helpless children. Where's Cody?”

Harry's face turned apoplectic. “Safe at home with a sitter. You're very brave with the bars between us, aren't you?” His jaw clenched. “People have been known to die in jail. Did you know that? I can have people put in here that'll make your worst nightmares come true.”

“You're my worst nightmare, Harry. And if you touch Cody again, I'll kill you.”

His teeth bared in a faux smile. “How will you kill me, Rachel? I have the power to delay the trial however long I want, and you know it. You'll be here until I decide to let you go. Taking the money was a foolish risk. The police found it in Cody's book bag. It wouldn't have helped you, anyway. You can't run from me.”

Rachel jumped to her feet, her body rigid. “Why don't you leave us alone? What is it with you, Harry, possessiveness, domination, what? You know I don't love you, and your son thinks you're Satan incarnate.”

He looked down at his hands and back at Rachel, his voice soft. “Believe it or not, I need you. I've always needed someone who belongs to me.”

“People don't belong to people, Harry. And you can save the pity act. Remember me; I've heard it all before.” She turned her back on him.

Harry's body trembled with fury. For a moment, it looked as if he would try to get to her through the bars, but he saw Jessie watching. Red-faced, he whirled and stomped away.

What kind of childhood molded a man like Harry London? For some reason, I believed Harry did need his wife and son. He treated them miserably, but somewhere deep in his disturbed mind, he probably felt a need even he couldn't explain.

Whatever it was, I didn't have the answer and didn't care.

Harry alone was responsible for his actions, regardless of his childhood.

One thing I did know. I had to get Rachel out of jail before her husband carried out his threats.

During my short tenure on the Hebron Police Force, I'd seen ordinary citizens placed in custody for twenty-four hours and come out dead or scarred for life.

That would not happen to Rachel. I'd made her a promise not to let him hurt either of them again. A promise I intended to keep. At the moment, I just didn't know how.

Rescuing Rachel had just moved to the top of my priority list. But first, I had to check on Cody.

 



 

Harry London's Home

Praying the Crown Heights' twins were off duty or taking a long coffee break, I parked two blocks down from the London residence. As I exited from my car, my phone rang. I recognized the number.