[Lady Justice 25] - Lady Justice and the Spy Page 2

  “Got it right here,” Kevin said, holding up a folder. “This will give us a place to start.”

  I patted Cathy’s hand. “Let Kevin and I put our heads together and do some digging. Don’t cancel anything just yet.”

  “In fact,” Kevin said, getting to his feet, “I’m ready to begin right now. We came over in two cars so Veronica and Cathy can take off.”

  “So nice to meet you,” Cathy said. “I hope there’s nothing to all this, but if there is, Veronica says the two of you can handle it.”

  “We’ll do our best,” I replied, escorting them to the door.

  As soon as they were gone, Kevin asked, “Well, what do you think?”

  “I think something’s definitely going on, but I have no idea what or why. What’s in the folder?”

  “Not much,” he replied, tossing it over. “Just names, addresses, phone numbers and surviving family members. Nothing to help us get to the what and the why.”

  “Then what we need are the police reports on the three murders. Time to give Ox a call.”

  Ox was my partner during my five year tenure on the police force. We became fast friends and every once in a while I’ll take advantage of that friendship to obtain information that would not normally be available to a private investigator.

  “Ox, Walt here. I need a favor.”

  “Another one? How much trouble will I get into this time?”

  “If this pans out, you may actually be a hero --- save a life or two.”

  “Yeah, yeah, I’ve heard that old line before. What do you need?”

  “Police reports on three murders, Seattle, Nashville and Miami.”

  “Oh, is that all. Before I put my butt in a sling, how about some details?”

  I filled him in on our visit with Cathy Carter.

  “Wow!” he said when I’d finished. “You certainly have my attention. I’ll get those reports. Should have them by tomorrow, but you have to promise to keep me in the loop. The last thing we need here in Kansas City is some nut blowing up a class reunion!”

  The next afternoon, Kevin and I were pouring over the reports.

  “Jane Hudson, Seattle,” Kevin read. “Investment broker. Found strangled with some kind of garrote, probably a thin wire of some kind. Happened after her kid’s birthday party. That’s tough.”

  “Marcia Withers, Nashville,” I added. “Business office at the Grand Ole Opry. Stabbed in the back with a serrated blade after a Christmas party.”

  Kevin picked up the third file. “Louise Nettles, Miami. Real estate agent. Bludgeoned with a heavy metal object at a real estate convention. Walt, this just doesn’t add up. These gals were miles apart, there’s nothing about their careers that ties them together, and they were all killed in different ways. There’s just nothing in common.”

  “Except the fact that they’re all women and all in the Westport High School class of ’97.”

  “So you think we’re looking at a twenty-year-old high school grudge?”

  “You got a better idea?”

  He shook his head and continued reading. “Here’s something weird in the Hudson file. Says they found a note next to the body. It said, ‘They all laugh when they see me comin',

  but you don't laugh, you just go home runnin'.’ What the hell does that mean?”

  I went back to the file on Marcia Withers. “Same thing here. They found a note saying, ‘Don’t you love farce? My fault I fear. I thought you’d want what I want --- sorry my dear.’ Sounds like some kind of goofy poem. Anything like that in the Nettles file?”

  Kevin looked. “Yep, sure enough. This note said, ‘Really I’m sad, oh sadder than sad. You’re gone and I’m hurting so bad.’ OK, now we’re getting somewhere. These notes definitely tie all three murders to one perp.”

  “Yeah,” I replied, “and the tone of these notes makes me think we’re looking for a jilted lover.”

  “It makes sense, but think about it. Is some guy really whacking old girlfriends over twenty-year-old high school crushes gone bad?”

  “Sounds pretty harsh. Who among us wasn’t shot down in our youth by a pretty young thing? It hurts at the time, but isn’t time supposed to heal all wounds?”

  “Supposed to, but maybe in this case those old wounds just festered.”

  “Anyway, sounds like a good lead. We need to check with Cathy and Veronica to see if there was one guy who dated all three victims.”

  I made the call and listened while the two gals discussed old relationships.

  “Sorry, Walt. We can’t come up with a single guy who dated all three.”

  I relayed the bad news to Kevin. “Too bad, I thought we might have something there.”

  “We still might,” he replied, “We just don’t know what.”

  CHAPTER 4

  Hobie Darling smiled as he read the newspaper headline.

  Scary clown sightings have area officials at their wit’s end.

  The story went on to say that continuing reports of scary clown sightings across the country and abroad were being fueled by attention on social media and were close to exasperating school officials and police.

  Another article in the business section read, Ronald McDonald Keeping Lower Profile. This article explained that the hamburger chain was cutting back on events featuring its mascot because of all the reports of creepy clown sightings.

  Target stores had even removed clown masks from their Halloween shelves because of the bad publicity.

  Perfect! Hobie thought as he gazed at his reflection in the mirror. Creepy clowns everywhere! The perfect cover! Dastardly deeds carried out by a killer clown, but which one?

  Hobie wasn’t a clown by choice --- it was a persona that had been foisted upon him by his family and peers.

  Deep down, he understood. He had always been different than the other kids. Too short, red-headed, freckle-faced, and ears too big for his head, he could have been the twin brother of Alfred E. Neuman, the goofy looking mascot of Mad Magazine.

  His dad, a barrel-chested bully, had wanted a son who would follow in his footsteps, an athlete, a ladies man who could boast about his conquests --- but instead, he got Hobie.

  It was no secret that Hobie was a great disappointment to his father, who left the house one day to buy beer and never returned.

  With his dad gone, it was just Hobie, his mom, and Chrissy, his older sister, who was everything that Hobie wasn’t.

  Four years older, Chrissy was a blonde, petite bombshell, a cheerleader, and a member of the most popular high school cliques.

  It was no secret who was Mrs. Darling’s favorite child. She lavished Chrissy with the latest fashions and supported all of her school and extracurricular activities, leaving poor Hobie to fend for himself.

  High school years can be difficult, but for Hobie, they were excruciating. Inside, he was like every other boy, but his homely exterior put him in a class by himself. Puberty brought on the raging hormones of adolescence, and while the other boys in his class were hooking up with pretty young things, none of the girls would give him the time of day.

  To compensate, he used his appearance, the very thing holding him back, to try to fit in with his peers. He learned the art of self-deprecation and poked fun at himself to bring smiles to the faces of his classmates.

  He became so adept, he was universally accepted as the class clown.

  He was not an athlete, nor was he musically inclined, so he sought other avenues to fill the void in his life.

  He found what he needed at a local magic shop. The kindly shopkeeper, seeing a young lad much like himself, took Hobie under his wing and tutored him in the art of magic.

  Soon he was pulling coins from his classmates’ ears and astounding them with card tricks, but he realized that all the magic in the world couldn’t get him a date with a pretty girl.

  It was not for a lack of trying. Emboldened by the success of his magic and comedy, he continually sought the company of the fairer sex only to be turned away.

/>   With nothing better to do, he continued to perfect his skills with magic. After graduation, Hobie created the persona of Clarence the Magical Clown, advertising his skills and earning a living performing his act at birthday parties and conventions.

  It was events such as these that put him close to those who had spurned his youthful advances.

  As he sat in front of the mirror applying the accoutrements of his trade, he smiled, remembering his latest conquests.

  Jane Hudson in Seattle. He had asked her to the homecoming dance and she laughed --- actually LAUGHED at him. Humiliated him. He wasn’t good enough to date, but twenty years later, Clarence the Clown was good enough for her daughter’s birthday party. After the party, with a garrote around her pretty neck, he revealed that Clarence was none other than the poor lad she had disgraced.

  Marcia Withers in Nashville. He had asked her to be his lab partner in chemistry class, but she turned him down cold, waiting to be asked by Dennis Crane. After performing at the Grand Ole Opry Christmas party, he reminded her of the mistake she had made as he plunged a knife into her breast.

  Louise Nettles in Miami. He remembered that day in the school cafeteria like it was yesterday. Louise was sitting at a table by herself. Seeing her alone, he brought his tray and sat down across from her. He recalled her look of utter disgust as she picked up her own tray and moved across the room. It wasn’t a look of disgust, but of shock as he bludgeoned her with a tire iron in the hotel garage after a real estate convention.

  All three --- dastardly deeds --- miles apart. Certainly not the work of a comic clown!

  Satisfied with his grease paint and goofy wig, he departed for his next gig and his next conquest.

  CHAPTER 5

  Sarah Savage stayed close to the two young ballplayers as she exited the Denver hotel.

  In spite of all the precautions she had taken, Con Ops had found her. She looked at the crowd milling about on the street. Any one of them could be another operative. Surely by now, the news of her escape would have been relayed to the rest of their team and they would be examining every face in the vicinity of the hotel.

  She had to get away from the city --- fast.

  Then fortune smiled on her again. The two ballplayers were heading toward a charter bus idling at the curb. They were undoubtedly heading to a suburban sports complex for their next game.

  She pulled her cap low across her face and followed them onto the bus, taking a seat at the very back. Then, like the dozen or so other players, she pulled her cell phone from her bag and pretended to text.

  Fifteen minutes later, she breathed a sigh of relief as the driver closed the door and pulled out into traffic. A chill ran down her spine as they passed an intersection where stood another agent she had worked with in the past. His gaze was fixed on every passerby, looking and searching --- for her.

  As the bus inched its way through Denver’s bumper-to-bumper traffic, she couldn’t help reflect on how her life had changed. In a matter of days, she had gone from one of the CIA’s most valuable operatives to their most sought-after target. In spite of her dire circumstances, she had to smile as she remembered an old TV show she had watched several times when sequestered away on some mind-numbing stake out. The show was Burn Notice, about Michael Weston, an agent who, like her, had fallen from grace and was being pursued by his former employer. At the time, she laughed at the absurdity of it all, but now she was the one who had been burned and was running for her life.

  She was alone, and like Weston, she hoped there would be a friend or two she could count on in her time of need.

  At last, the bus reached its destination, a baseball sports complex. She disembarked with the rest of the team and blended into the jostling crowd of players and parents on their way to their next game. She felt momentarily secure. The agency would never think of looking for her here.

  She found a quiet spot, pulled out her cell, turned it on and started to dial, then suddenly stopped. How stupid. They would be monitoring her phone. She pulled up a number then quickly shut it off.

  She had to make a call. She headed back to the concession area hoping for a pay phone, but no such luck.

  Seeing all the families who had come to watch their kids play gave her an idea. She went to the ladies restroom, slid into a stall, and changed from a ballplayer to a woman who could have been any boy’s grandma. There were very few perks being a sixty-three year old agent, but this was one of them.

  Properly dressed, she approached another woman about her age.

  “I’m so sorry to bother you,” she said, holding up her phone, “but Blake is going to pitch the next game and my battery is dead. I just have to call his granddad. Any chance I could borrow your phone for a minute?”

  “Of course,” the woman replied with a wink. “We grannies have to stick together, don’t we?”

  Sarah quickly dialed the number she had pulled from her phone and called an old contact from her past. “Jackson? It’s Sarah. I need your help.”

  “Jesus, Sarah! What’s going on? Everybody and their brother are looking for you.”

  “Can’t talk now. I don’t think they’d be monitoring your phone but we can’t take the chance. I need transportation. Can you get me a car? I can pay.”

  “Where are you?”

  “The Kennedy Park Baseball Fields off I-225, near Cherry Creek State Park.”

  “I know the place. Give me an hour.”

  “Take care you’re not followed. If they find us together we’re both dead.”

  “How comforting. See you in an hour.”

  True to his word, Jackson pulled into the parking lot an hour later in a nondescript Toyota. Sarah slid into the passenger seat.

  “Thanks, Jackson. I owe you. Are you sure you weren’t followed?”

  “Positive. That’s why it took me an hour to get here. I had to be sure. So tell me. What the hell’s going on? Why are you on the run?”

  “I’m burned, Jackson. Not for something I did, but for something I wouldn’t do. For your sake that’s all you need to know. Please don’t ask for more.”

  “OK, I get it. Here’s the title to the car in your name, just in case. What else can I do for you?”

  “You’ve done enough just getting me the car,” she said, putting an envelope in his lap. “This should cover the cost, plus some. Where can I drop you off?”

  He pulled into a motel parking lot. “I’ll get out here and take a cab back to my place. It’s not far.”

  Before he slid out of the driver’s seat, he took Sarah’s hand. “I’m guessing this is good bye. I won’t be seeing you again --- ever.”

  “Probably not,” she replied, squeezing his hand. “One way or another, this is the end of the line. You’ve been a good friend, Jackson. I’ll miss you.”

  Be safe, Sarah Savage, Jackson whispered as he watched her drive away.

  Sarah headed north on 225 to I-70, then turned east toward Kansas. It was smooth sailing until she reached the Colorado border. Traffic was backed up for a half mile.

  A young man in a convertible was in the lane beside her. She rolled down her window. “Any idea what’s causing the delay? Traffic accident maybe?”

  “No,” he replied. “I think it’s one of their damn doobie checkpoints. Ever since Colorado legalized marijuana, people have been coming from out-of-state, buying weed and taking it back home. This is kind of like one of those sobriety checkpoints on New Year’s Eve. They do this every so often just to keep people honest.”

  Great! she thought. It had to be today when I’m on the run!

  Then she had a sobering thought. As soon as Con Ops realized she had given them the slip, they would have been watching the airport and bus and railway terminals, and every law enforcement agency would have been notified to be on the lookout --- including the Highway Patrol. Had the two troopers ahead seen her photo?

  She watched as the officers stopped each car, gave a cursory glance at the driver, then waved them through. Not a one was
pulled over and detained.

  Before approaching the checkpoint, she put her Beretta under a sweater on the passenger seat.

  When it was her turn, she pulled up to the trooper and rolled down her window.

  “Morning, Ma’am, Just checking for illegal contraband.”

  “Well, I’m a Willie Nelson fan,” she replied, trying to keep it light, “but I’m not carrying today.”

  “I’m a fan, too,” he replied, giving her a closer look. “Hang on a minute, please,” he said, returning to his cruiser.

  A moment later, he returned. “Ma’am, please pull over and step out of the vehicle.”

  He had recognized her photo.

  Without a moment’s hesitation, she grabbed her Beretta, pulled forward just enough to get a clear shot, and blew out the front tire of the cruiser. Stomping the accelerator, she left the troopers in a cloud of dust.

  Her mind was racing as fast as the old Toyota. The first thing the troopers would do was radio ahead, relaying the description of her and her car, and somewhere along I-70 there would be another checkpoint. Given her notoriety, they would probably call in a helicopter to pinpoint her exact location.

  She had to find cover --- fast. The problem was that she was now in western Kansas, and there was nothing but open, flat ground for miles with very few trees. Certainly not enough to conceal a vehicle from the road or the air.

  Then she saw it --- an old barn, the last remnants of a family farm, long ago abandoned. A road, rutted and overgrown with weeds led to the barn. She turned off the highway, hoping there was enough left of the old structure to give her cover. On the backside was a lean-to that once housed a tractor or some other equipment. One support had failed, but there was just enough room next to the barn for the Toyota to squeeze in.

  Once inside, she shut off the engine and breathed a sigh of relief. She was safe for the moment, but it was still a long way to Kansas City, and every lawman between here and there would be looking for her.

  It wouldn’t be easy, but during her career she had been in tougher spots. She was determined to complete this last mission before they took her.