Web of Justice (13 page)

King seemed about to speak, but Hank silenced him with a look and a guarded frown. Carter Wilde was in a precarious position. It appeared the man was torn between doing the right thing and loyalty toward his brother.

“I’m sure Izzy will undergo a mental assessment,” Hank said. “That’s par for the course. But I can’t guarantee what the finding will be. If he’s found fit to stand trial, then I have no recourse. Once we bring him in, our job’s done, and any further decisions are out of my hands.”

Carter pursed his lips, his eyes on Hank’s. Then he nodded and spoke in a low voice. “I understand.” He took a deep breath and seemed to be thinking. Finally, he said, “All right. You have my full cooperation. I expect you’ll bring him in eventually, so it might as well be before he hurts anyone else.”

“What we’re asking is very simple,” Hank said. “We want your permission to monitor your phone calls, but more importantly, if your brother contacts you, we want your help in bringing him in.”

Carter emitted a light sigh and nodded in agreement.

Hank slipped a business card from his breast pocket and held it out. “You can get me on my cell any time.”

Carter took the card, set it on a stand beside his chair, then narrowed his eyes at Hank. “Will you promise to be careful not to harm him? Not to shoot him?”

Hank couldn’t make a promise like that. The safety of others was always his prime concern. He said, “No one in the department is trigger-happy. The last thing we want is to draw our weapons.”

Carter nodded again.

“If your brother contacts you for help, offer him whatever he wants,” Hank said. “Arrange to meet him if necessary. Promise him money, food, or transportation. Anything it takes to set up a meeting. And then contact me right away. Night or day.”

Carter looked down, straightened a pant leg, and flicked away a piece of lint. “I’ll do my best.”

Hank stood and stepped toward Carter, holding out his hand. “Thank you for your cooperation. Someone will contact you immediately to get the monitoring set up. It’ll involve installing some software on your cell phone and tapping your landline.”

Carter shook Hank’s hand and reached for his cane.

“Don’t bother getting up,” Hank said. “We’ll see ourselves out.” He turned to King, who’d stood, and the detectives left the apartment.

On the way to his vehicle, Hank made a call to the sergeant in charge of the manhunt. The dogs had lost the fugitive’s trail a couple of miles from the area of the escape, but one thing was certain—Wilde was heading back toward the city.

Neighborhoods had been canvassed, hundreds of citizens had been questioned, and any and all possible leads were being followed up. Thus far, Wilde was nowhere to be found.

Right now they were in a wait-and-see situation. Until Izzy Wilde made another move, or the manhunt turned up a lead, there wasn’t much he could do.

Chapter 21

Wednesday, 8:44 p.m.

IZZY WILDE wormed his way through a row of cedar hedges. The safety of the forest lay behind him, a narrow unkempt lawn in front. He squinted in the growing darkness. Yellow crime scene tape was tacked across the front door of his house. Further down, the old shed had received the same treatment.

He couldn’t tell if the buildings and property were being watched. Would they waste their manpower to guard a place they knew he’d be insane to return to? Probably not. There were no police cars in sight, the only vehicle being his old broken-down pickup resting alongside two other useless cars on the front lawn. None of them would do him any good.

He couldn’t tell from his vantage point, but he assumed they’d carted away his only serviceable vehicle from the garage. But it didn’t matter. He still had the old gray sedan waiting for him, hidden in plain sight not far away.

But he wasn’t here for transportation. He had to get inside the house. He needed a change of clothes; the orange jumpsuit he now wore wasn’t something he wanted to be seen in. He could get fresh clothes anywhere, of course, but what he needed most was to get the stash of money he had hidden in a safe place.

“This way,” his mother said. She stood on the lawn, not twenty feet away, beckoning toward him. “It’s safe,” she called, and he knew he could trust her. He could always trust her.

He worked his way out of the bushes, and keeping low, he scurried across the lawn to the side of the house. The basement window, dead center of the building, hadn’t closed right for some time. With one well-aimed kick, the window swung open, and he slipped inside, landing with a soft thud on the floor of the musty basement.

He felt his way across the darkened room, took the dusty wooden steps up, and stopped to listen, his hand on the doorknob. He breathed lightly, carefully, then, satisfied no one was on the main floor of the house, he turned the knob and the door creaked open. It stopped with a dull thump, bouncing against the side of his mother’s china cabinet.

Izzy took the final step up, eased into the kitchen, and glanced around. Things were pretty much the way he’d left them. There was evidence that drawers and cupboards had been searched, but after a cursory glance, it didn’t appear anything of value was missing. It didn’t matter much anyway; he wouldn’t be coming back here to live.

The living room looked the same as well. His mother’s favorite chair sat facing the television. The couch where she’d loved to nap was still under the front window, the ragged carpet strewn in front of it.

He took another quick look around and headed up the stairs to the second floor. He stopped short at the top and frowned. His bedroom door was open. He’d always kept it closed. They must’ve rifled through his room as well, and he hoped they hadn’t found his stash of emergency funds.

He stepped inside and moved past his bed to an ancient dresser on the far wall. He slipped the bottom drawer fully out, then reached a hand into the cavity and smiled. A couple of sharp tugs worked loose a packet of money, neatly bound with an elastic band. He stood and tossed it onto the bed.

As long as he didn’t have to keep on buying new cars every day, the funds would last him a good long time. He didn’t trust banks, and he was glad he’d kept some money aside for a rainy day. And it certainly was a rainy day.

He knelt down and reached into the cavity again, this time removing a small pistol. He smiled grimly, stood, and tossed it onto the bed beside the money.

He turned to the task of finding a suitable wardrobe. The cops had taken his favorite running shoes from him, replacing them with a canvas pair. He kicked them off, then stripping off his police-provided jumpsuit, he tossed it aside and rummaged around in his closet.

He came up with a nondescript button-down shirt and a pair of faded blue jeans and put them on. He found a pair of worn running shoes at the back of the closet and slipped them on, and then, from a shelf above the row of clothing he’d never wear again, he found a baseball cap. He worked it onto his head, then stepped back and admired himself in the full-length mirror.

He looked like an average Joe. He grinned at himself. But better looking.

He grabbed the packet of money and slipped it into his side pocket, then tucked the pistol behind his back, secured in place by his belt. Looking around the room, he decided it might be better if no one knew he’d been here. He might have to come back again. He worked the drawer into place, then bundled up his former attire and stuffed it all under the bed.

He moved to the doorway and stopped short when he heard a voice—his mother’s soft voice. She was coming up the stairs. His smile disappeared when a man spoke in a low tone. His mother giggled and Izzy frowned.

He stepped behind the door and watched through the crack as his mother led the stranger across the hallway and into her bedroom. She closed the door, and Izzy took a careful step into the hallway, disquieted, and unsure what to think.

He hadn’t felt well today and had come home from school early. He knew his mother had a lot of male friends, but he was fourteen years old now, and had seen and heard enough to know what was going on was more than friendship.

Curious and disturbed, he put his ear to the door of his mother’s room. Low voices sounded from the other side.

He suppressed his guilt for spying on his mother in her bedroom, but he had to find out what was going on. He knelt with care in front of the door and pressed his eye to the keyhole. His mouth widened as his mother kicked off her shoes, tossed her hair, and removed her dress while the stranger watched.

Izzy closed his eyes a moment, ashamed and embarrassed to see his mother that way. Then, overtaken by curiosity, he opened them again and watched the troubling scene, scarcely daring to breathe lest he be found out.

He recoiled as the filthy visitor reached out and put a hand on his mother, fondling her. Izzy’s eyes popped and his blood boiled.

His mother’s dark brown eyes shone as she stood and subjected herself to his vulgar touch. He stroked her long black hair, caressing it with his fingers, touching her in forbidden places.

Then she held out a hand and spoke. The visitor stepped back, removed his wallet, and dropped some bills on the nightstand.

Izzy gasped. His mother’s head spun toward the closed door, her hair twirling around her throat. Her dark brown eyes seemed to bore into his and he dropped down, catching his breath. His heart pounded as an unfamiliar anger welled up inside him.

The awful truth hit him, and he recoiled in shock. His wonderful mother was a prostitute. She sold herself to any man who came along. And she was a liar. The times she’d soothed him when he was sad, or held him when he was lonely and said she loved him, were all a lie.

She was a whore. A filthy whore.

Anger, sadness, and despair overtook him, and he stumbled to his feet and raced down the stairs.

He jumped the last three steps to the landing and heard a door open. A voice called—the voice of a strange woman—mocking him, taunting him. “Izzy, dear? Is that you?” It wasn’t soft and loving anymore. It was cruel and evil. It was the voice of a woman who had sold herself for a pittance. Her soul in exchange for a few dollars.

She was detestable and loathsome and he hated her. Hated her for what she’d done to their family. She’d chased his father away many years ago, then, like the spawn of Satan, straight from the depths of hell, she’d destroyed what love he had once felt for her.

All gone.

He needed to find Carter. Carter would know what to do. His brother had always been there for him. He wondered if Carter knew what their mother was. He couldn’t possibly know.

He burst through the front door of the house and tore across the lawn toward the trees. He had to get away from there. Away from that woman and the house she had desecrated.

He had to get to the gray sedan.

Chapter 22

Wednesday, 10:12 p.m.

TANYA ARBUCKLE slid her handbag toward her, thumbed through her wallet, and dropped a five-dollar tip on the bar. She often came to Benny’s after work to relax and nurse a drink or two and, as usual, it seemed like most of her time had been spent fending off the advances of men twice her age.

Was that all she could attract?

Not that she was homely, but she was exhausted and didn’t look her best—whatever that was. And the type of guys who’d been eyeing her weren’t the kind she’d ever consider spending an evening with, never mind sharing a drink with in a gloomy dive bar.

At twenty-six years old, she’d given up all hopes of finding a decent man long ago.

It seemed like all the good ones were taken. The story of her life.

And anyway, she wasn’t here to meet anyone. She’d dealt with enough people during her long day tied to the cash register, and she wanted peace and relative quiet away from her dead-end job. The couple of drinks she’d had were enough to do the trick, and it was time to head home. She had to get up early in the morning.

She spun her stool around and dropped to her feet, avoiding eye contact with a couple of drooling patrons who thought they still had a chance with her. Crossing the dingy room, she pushed open the solid wooden door and stepped into the warm night air.

Two guys leaning against the brick wall at the side of the door abruptly stopped their conversation and leered at her.

“Need someone to walk you home?” one of them asked. The other guy laughed and flicked his cigarette butt into the gutter.

Tanya raised her head without answering, turned her back on them, and headed down the sidewalk. A few moments later, she glanced over her shoulder. They were still watching her, their laughter and catcalls fading away as she hurried toward home.

One of these days she hoped to get out of this neighborhood, but for now, the small apartment three blocks away was all she could afford.

She sighed. Maybe one day.

Hearing a vehicle behind her, she turned her head as a gray sedan pulled to the curb beside her.

The driver rolled down his window and flashed a toothy smile. “Excuse me, miss.”

Tanya stopped and turned toward the vehicle. “Yes?”

“I’m looking for this address,” he said, waving a piece of paper out the window. “Can you help me?”

Tanya stepped toward the vehicle, reached for the paper, then gasped as the man’s hand shot out and seized her wrist. As a scream welled up inside of her, he forced the door open, pushing it against her body as he jumped out. A sweaty hand went over her mouth, the other gripping her long black hair, and her cry for help died inside.

She struggled, but she was no match for the strong arms holding her from behind.

“Stay still. I ain’t gonna hurt you,” he hissed in her ear.

She had no intention of succumbing, and she continued to claw at his hands and wrists. Then something went around her neck. It felt like a rope, or maybe a belt, and she fought for air. Then her eyes dimmed and her body weakened, until finally, she felt herself sinking into his arms as her mind went blank.