[Lady Justice 11] - Lady Justice and the Cruise Ship Murders Read online

  Another fellow, obviously one notch up the food chain, came by with the wonderful news that he had just a few foreclosures they had picked up and we could move right into one for just thirty grand.

  Who could pass up a deal like that?

  When we had both said ‘no’ for the fourth time around, they finally gave up and another gal brought us our ‘thank you’ gifts.

  Sure enough, there was a cruise, not a seven day cruise to Alaska, but a three day cruise to the Bahamas, and certain restrictions would apply, one of them being that pretty much the whole year was blacked out except for the rainy season. The cruise was indeed free, but of course with the port fees, etc, etc, etc, the actual cost was pretty much the same as the cruises we had seen online.

  Ox left the hotel that evening a disappointed but wiser man.

  I considered reminding him again that there is no such thing as a free lunch, then I remembered the weenies.

  CHAPTER 2

  Amy knew that her husband was a skeptic by nature --- not a bad trait for an attorney, and that she would have to handle the situation delicately.

  She had spent the better part of a week researching her husband’s family tree at the Midwest Genealogy Center and had poured through dozens of accounts of the Alaskan gold rush era.

  She had discovered that the information contained in the letter from A. Prospector had been accurate.

  She knew that her husband dealt in facts not fantasy, so she had photocopied documents and presented them like one of his legal briefs.

  She had decided to wait until after the evening meal when he was relaxed and had put the rigors of his daily grind behind him.

  When she felt that the time was right, she was ready to make her case.

  “Mark, I have something I would like to share with you.”

  He saw the letter on top of the stack of papers in her hand.

  “Is this about that silly letter we received last week? I thought we were past that.”

  “You said you didn’t object to me doing some digging, so I’d like to show you what I’ve found.”

  Mark reluctantly followed her to the kitchen table where she laid out her week’s work.

  When she had finished, he gave her a smile. “Are you sure you’re not an attorney? We may have to offer you a position. Now what, exactly, are you suggesting?”

  “I think we should email the guy and see what he has in mind. What harm could it do? He already knows who we are and where we live. I’d love to hear what he has to say.”

  Mark thought it over. “I guess it couldn’t hurt and you have done a lot of work --- okay, just for you.”

  They booted up the computer and typed:

  Mr. A. Prospector,

  We found your letter to be interesting and factual, at least on the surface.

  While we make no promises or commitments at this point, we would be interested in hearing what you have in mind.

  Sincerely,

  Mark Stewart

  Mark looked at his wife. “Good enough for now?”

  She nodded and he punched ‘send’.

  They had just settled in for an evening of TV when the computer announced, “You have mail, Sir.”

  “That was fast,” Mark said as they opened their Inbox.

  Dear Mr. Stewart,

  Thank you for your prompt reply.

  As I mentioned in my letter, Slim-Jim Foster and John Bowers, the members of Soapy Smith’s gang that stole your great-great grandfather’s gold, were apprehended in the forest outside of Skagway on their way to the White Pass Trail.

  The gold was not in their possession at the time of their capture, leading authorities to believe that it had been hidden away in the forest for retrieval at a later date.

  Both men were incarcerated in Juneau, and it was during this period of incarceration that Foster made notes as to the location of the gold, lest he forget before his release.

  Somehow, these notes were included in a box of artifacts that the prison released to the University of Alaska Southeast in Juneau, for historical purposes.

  In my position at the University, I stumbled upon these old notes.

  I’m sure, with your inquiring mind as a barrister, you are wondering why I don’t just follow the clues and claim the gold for myself.

  The foremost reason is my advanced age. Traipsing through the Alaskan forest is not an old man’s game and I would be fearful to attempt such a quest alone.

  Secondly, you are the rightful heir of John D. Stewart and have lawful claim to the gold, if indeed it still exists.

  Lastly, as a scholar, I may have one last piece to publish as part of my legacy and I can think of no more exciting way to end my academic career than to discover a cache of gold hidden away for over a century.

  If you will agree to come north, I will meet you in Skagway and we can commence this wonderful adventure together.

  Now that we have established a line of communication, I will introduce myself.

  Yours in adventure,

  Alfred R. Quimby, PhD

  Mark and Amy stared at the email, but neither of them spoke.

  Amy punched some keys and ‘Google’ appeared on the screen. She typed the name, Alfred R. Quimby, and several references popped up immediately.

  Most were excerpts from scholarly works about the history of Alaska.

  “Looks like he’s for real,” she said. “What do you think?”

  “Well, you know that I’m a born skeptic, but I am intrigued.”

  Seeing an opening, Amy forged ahead. “You know that we’ve been talking about getting away for a while. What better place than Alaska --- maybe even a cruise. This is a perfect opportunity to know more about your family history, but even if it turns out to be a bust, at least we’ve had a nice vacation. Whadda you say?”

  “I say you present a very compelling case, counselor,” he said with a smile. “Let’s do it!”

  After our disappointing evening with the timeshare bimbos, it was back to the Internet to search for legitimate cruise options.

  Dozens of sites popped up, each one offering the very best cruises for the very lowest prices.

  After a lot of digging, it appeared that a few cruise lines handled the bulk of the Alaskan cruises.

  We said eennie meenie miney moe and picked the Holland-America Line.

  There were so many options to choose from on their website, we quickly became confused and opted to speak to a travel professional.

  A perky little gal named Lauren came on the line. We explained that we were beginning cruisers and had absolutely no idea what we were doing.

  Evidently we weren’t the first ignoramuses that she had dealt with. A half hour later, we were booked on our seven-day Alaskan cruise, and yes, Ox was going to pan for gold and Judy got her salmon bake. Maggie and I were just tickled to be invited along.

  As soon as the phone was snapped shut, the first meeting of the Alaskan Cruise Women’s Auxiliary Meeting was convened.

  “So much to do!” Judy declared. “There’s the wardrobe and ----”

  “Wardrobe?” Ox asked. “What wardrobe?”

  “The clothes we’re going to take with us. There’s four dressy casual evenings, two formal evenings, sportswear for around the ship, warm clothing for our excursions, raingear, and, of course, something special just for you. It is our honeymoon.”

  Ox was dumbfounded. “We’re only going to be gone seven days!”

  “Oh really, Mr. GQ,” Judy replied, “and just what are you going to wear?”

  “Pants --- shirts --- skivvies --- how hard can it be?”

  Judy rolled her eyes. I think it was fortunate that Maggie was along so that she would have someone to commiserate with.

  I, on the other hand, had to agree with Ox. How hard could it be?

  I soon found out!

  The Trolley Trail rapist had struck again.

  This time it was a female student at the University of Missouri-Kansas City.

  She live
d at the Johnson Residence Hall on Oak Street. The south end of the Hall was just a hundred feet from the north end of the Trolley Trail.

  She had hit the trail at five in the morning for a run before classes and was attacked a few blocks south of the campus.

  At that early hour, there were no witnesses and we had no leads as to the identity of the attacker.

  The captain called Ox, Judy and me into his office.

  “We have to stop this guy,” he said. “Residents living along the trail are afraid to leave their homes and trail usage has nearly come to a halt. It’s time for a decoy operation and we think the three of you can handle it.”

  “What’s the plan?” Ox asked.

  “There’s no way that we can cover the seven mile length of the trail, so instead of trying to guess where the creep is going to strike next, we’ll bring him to us. That’s where you come in, Judy. You’re good-looking and you can handle yourself, so you’ll be the perfect decoy.

  “We know the guy has targeted someone from The Well, so we’ll have you start spending time there and walking home just like the first victim. We can’t have anyone too close or we’ll spook the guy, so Ox will patrol Wornall in his cruiser and Walt will be on the trail on a bike. You’ll be miked so the guys will know if he comes after you.”

  I raised my hand, “Bike? I don’t have a bike and why me? Ox is a lot younger.”

  Ox gave me a dirty look.

  “Ox weighs two-thirty and you’re a buck fifty soaking wet. That’s why. Don’t worry about the bike. We’ll supply one for you.”

  Ox stuck his tongue out at me, which I thought was pretty juvenile.

  “Let’s get this thing rolling,” the captain said. “Judy, you start hanging around the bar. Ox and Walt need to familiarize themselves with the trail so that they can respond quickly when you need them. Ox will drive all the streets on both sides of the trail and Walt will bike the trail from one end to the other looking for possible danger zones. Get to it!”

  I had heard the old saying many times, “It’s like riding a bike. Once you learn, you’ll never forget.”

  I hoped that was true. I hadn’t ridden a bike for over fifty years.

  The sleek two-wheeler that was given to me was a far cry from my last bike.

  I remember when I got it. It was Christmas when I was about ten years old. I had wanted a BIG bike so bad I could taste it, and sure enough, on Christmas morning a big red Schwinn sat under the Christmas tree.

  I can remember riding down Wall Street with the cold December wind whipping through my hair. It was my first taste of real freedom and I can still feel that incredible exhilaration to this very day.

  The tires on that Schwinn were twice as wide as the one that had been loaned to me. The loaner had a bazillion speeds and my old one had just one --- pedal hard.

  I climbed on and, sure enough, it was like I had ridden just yesterday --- almost. The difference was that my body, which included my legs, calves and lungs were fifty years older.

  Thankfully, the trail was relatively smooth with few hills.

  After a few miles, I began to feel another uncomfortable sensation. I didn’t remember the seats being so narrow and hard.

  Mr. Winkie and the boys were taking quite a beating and the hard, pokey seat felt like Doc Johnson was giving me a prostate exam.

  By the time I had ridden the seven mile trail, I was chaffed, winded and walking bow-legged.

  Several days had passed without another attack from the Trolley Trail rapist.

  Judy was becoming a regular at The Well. She had been propositioned six times and had downed so many cocktails she joking said that she would have to enroll in AA after the operation was over.

  She had walked home each evening to an apartment that the Department had rented about ten blocks south of the bar.

  I had dutifully followed several blocks behind on my trusty bike. By that time I had gone through a full tube of Preparation H.

  On the fifth night of the operation, we checked our mikes and settled in for another long evening.

  Just before eleven, Judy’s voice came through my earbud, “I’ve had it for tonight. If I have to hear one more lame pick-up line, I’m gonna kill somebody.”

  I watched her leave the bar and head down the Trolley Trail. I waited until she had gone several blocks and was out of sight before I climbed on my bike and followed.

  Everything was quiet along the trail except for Judy’s soft humming as she walked along.

  Suddenly, I was startled by Judy’s shrill voice. “OH SHIT!”

  I heard grunts and groans and the sound of something heavy hitting the ground.

  I peddled as fast as my achy, sixty-nine year old legs would move. “Judy, talk to me. What’s happening?”

  I heard a groan, “It was him! I flipped him but he came down on top of my leg. I’m okay but I’m not moving very fast. He’s heading back your way. He might be headed toward the old school.”

  “I’m on it. Ox, are you getting this?”

  “On the way partner.”

  Just as I got to the edge of the old school yard, I saw a shadowy figure race across the playground.

  “He’s at the school,” I said. “I’m going in.”

  The old Bingham Middle School at 76th and Wyandotte had been closed since 2002. With the city population moving to the suburbs and the resulting decline in student enrollment, the Kansas City School District had closed a dozen or more schools. Bingham was one of them.

  I crossed the cracked asphalt pavement of the old playground where I had last seen our runner.

  I shined my light toward the building and saw that a door was standing ajar.

  It was black as pitch inside and I was glad I had my flashlight. I drew my weapon and advanced slowly down the hallway.

  The old building was huge, at least two stories tall, and it probably had a basement. The guy could be hiding anywhere. I hoped that Ox and backup would be arriving soon.

  I moved slowly, stopping at every classroom and shining my light into every corner.

  The district was obviously using the old school for storage as each classroom was filled with old outdated computer terminals, rickety desks or kitchen equipment from home economics classes.

  As I looked at the old stoves, I wondered how many cookies eager students had baked over the years.

  The teachers hadn’t even bothered to take the artwork off of the bulletin boards before abandoning the building and little Johnny’s last fearsome dinosaur stared at me from across the room.

  I had just reentered the hallway when someone slammed into me with the full weight of their body.

  I hit the floor and my gun flew from my hand. I did manage to hold onto my flashlight.

  I started to go for my gun, but I saw that the rapist was a lot closer to it than I was and he had the same idea.

  At that moment, I decided that discretion was the better part of valor, so I took off down the hall.

  I heard the guy grab my gun off of the floor and cock the hammer.

  Incredibly, the thing that popped into my mind was the scene from the 1979 movie, The In-laws, where Alan Arkin is trying to avoid a hail of bullets and Peter Falk yells, “Serpentine, Shel! Serpentine!”

  I figured if it was good enough for Peter Falk, it was good enough for me, and I zigged just as the guy pulled the trigger, and thankfully, the bullet zagged.

  I stumbled down the hall like a drunken sailor, weaving from side to side. Even with the light, I was tripping over broken chairs and wastebaskets.

  The rapist had the gun, but I had the flashlight and I heard him cussing a blue streak as he crashed into things, hot on my tail.

  I turned a corner and saw big double doors standing wide open. I ran through them and found myself in the huge gymnasium.

  I figured there had to be several exits from the place, but to my dismay, when I shined my light, boxes of books stacked almost to the ceiling had blocked all of the other exits.

  Th
ere was only one way out and the guy with the gun was almost there.

  I searched frantically for someplace to hide, but the big old gym was nearly empty except for those damn boxes.

  Then I saw it and as soon as I saw it, I hated it.

  A braided rope, an inch thick, hung from the ceiling to the floor.

  When I was in high school, such a rope was the most fearsome object in the school for me.

  I was a wiry kid, weighing barely a hundred pounds. I could run and I could tumble with the best of the class, but upper body strength just wasn’t my thing. In P.E. class, the coach made each one of us climb a rope just like the one I was looking at. If you could climb it, you were cool. If you couldn’t, you were a wimp.

  I was a wimp.

  I could get maybe ten feet off the ground, but I’d be stuck right there.

  That was fifty years ago. I had no idea if I could even hold my own weight at my age.

  I figured I’d better try. The rapist’s footsteps were just outside the double doors.

  I switched off the flashlight, stuck it in my pocket and grabbed the rope.

  I pulled with all my strength and wrapped my leg around the rope the way I remembered the cool kids doing it.

  I just had to get high enough and remain quiet enough that the guy wouldn’t notice that I was hanging up in the air.

  The guy entered the gym. “Might as well come out cop. This is my playpen and I know there’s no other way out. I’ll get you sooner or later.”

  I heard his footsteps coming closer.

  I figured that I must be at least higher than his head, but in the dark, I had no idea.

  My arms were beginning to ache and I didn’t know how much longer I could hang on.

  I heard the siren from Ox’s cruiser in the distance and I held on tighter, hoping he would find us soon.

  “I can hear you breathing, cop. I know you’re here. Let’s get this over with.”