“The warrant is current, it’s not been pulled or amended.”
“Doesn’t have to be an official request. Who are his buddies wit?”
“He’s a criminal lawyer.” Boy, was he ever. I scrolled through his Facebook friends. “His friends list is peppered with influential people.” My mouse pointer hovered over someone who stood out. “Rusty Cookson.”
“Chief of Police,” Iain said. “Know each other well?”
I scrolled through photographs: Locke, and two other men, one of whom I recognized as Peter Bradley the Deputy Mayor of D.C., playing golf and tennis. There were other photos of Locke and Cookson with their respective partners at Christmas and what appeared to be Cookson family events.
“Yep. Looks like they’ve known each other a fair while and are close.”
“Could be your answer right there.”
“I get the feeling he’s waiting for his new life to kick in then he’ll be gone.”
“Explain that …”
“Police can’t be held at bay forever. If I were him, I’d be organizing myself a new identity and a new life. For us that’s pretty easy, we often have several
lives
we can step into but he probably doesn’t. Creating a new identity so he can leave and never look back will take time.”
“You think his friendship with the Chief of Police has bought him that time?”
“Yeah.”
I also think I’m going to upset Rusty Cookson by messing with his pal Locke.
“Hate to pick your brain then run.” I stood up. “Nice to see you, Iain. Don’t be a stranger.”
Iain rose, dragged the chair back where he’s got it from and said, “I think I’ll go say hello to whoever is in the bullpen before heading back to work.” He left with a backward wave.
From my desk drawer I took my gun and holster. On the way to the door, I took a jacket from the coat rack in the corner of my office and pulled it on, making sure my injured hand went in first.
A cacophony of noise flowed down the corridor from the bullpen. Electronic alerts, ringing phones, low murmurs, and then deeper voices greeting Iain, all mingled together. I walked in the other direction. If Facebook and my gut were correct, finding and arresting Locke would not be difficult. I paused at the arresting thought. That might not be super simple.
“Where are you going?” Kurt called from behind me.
Turning slightly I replied, “To see a man about his life choices.”
“Does this relate to our Hitchcockian case?” He caught up and walked beside me.
Glad it wasn’t just me who saw the old horror movie aspect.
“Yes.”
“And you were going alone?” Kurt held the stairwell door open for me. I stepped through and started down the first of the eight flights of stairs that led to the ground floor.
“Guess so.”
The stairwell smelled weird. Not like Berocca vomit but unpleasant and difficult to pinpoint. I grabbed for an image that evoked happiness and fresh air. A meadow full of flowers wrapped around my mind.
“Conway, you all right?”
“Yeah.” I kept about four steps ahead of him and moved quickly. Tempted to go through the next fire door and take the elevator. As I walked, I decided to stick with the stinky stairs. The more my mouth watered, the more flowers I imagined. Kurt was talking and I had no idea what about. His voice faded in and out, lost in the heat and my concentration.
I stayed ahead of Kurt and forced myself to stop thinking about anything except the case. Nothing else mattered. I opened the last door and stepped out into the airy foyer. Relieved to be out of the closeness of the stairwell I let the image of the field of flowers dissolve.
“Where are we going?” Kurt asked.
“12th Street. Thought I’d walk.”
“Who are we seeing?”
“Charles Locke.”
“You spoke to him already?”
“Not this Charles Locke, I found the son. Meanwhile, Sam is taking a run at Mr. Locke senior and Sean is getting one of his managers to get me any employment records his company has for senior.”
We walked up Pennsylvania, side by side. The fresh air helped clear my head.
“Grab a drink on the way?”
“Sure,” I replied. Hot chocolate sounded pretty good.
“You’re very quiet this afternoon,” Kurt said. “You sleep last night?”
A smile tweaked the corners of my mouth. “Yeah.”
“Charles Locke, run his connection to the case by me again?”
“Mallory Stevens met with him after she saw Phoebe Childs,” I said.
“She wasn’t keen on talking about that when we interviewed her.”
No surprise.
“It doesn’t look good for her, that’s for sure. I have confirmed that he’s screwing Mallory Stevens.” Thank you, Facebook messenger.
“Stevens was definitely in a relationship with Phoebe?”
“As far as I can tell. Stevens was cheating,” I replied, watching traffic for a moment. “At first glance, Locke’s Facebook page contains a few of our victims, either as friends or friends of friends who have commented on status updates he’s posted.”
Kurt nodded. “He’s married to Phoebe Childs’ sister?”
“Yes. He’s the wife-beating asshole who put her in hospital several times. Lawyers are right up there with journalists in my book.” I didn’t even try to keep the contempt from my voice.
“What do you know about Locke?”
“Metro have a warrant out for his arrest. Has a criminal record. And he’s a slimy scumbag lawyer with a big firm which has been protecting him.”
“Violent?”
“He’s had three charges of male assaults female in his past and a slew of domestic violence charges relating to the last six months. So I’m going with yes.”
“And you were going alone.”
Yeah, shoot me. Or let me shoot him. Can’t see how that wouldn’t be a winning move on my part.
We dodged shoppers and sightseers who seemed to take the entire sidewalk with no regard for anyone else. I felt a bark brewing.
Keep right, for fuck’s sake and let us get through. Bet they’re all over the place on escalators too.
I hoped never to find out.
“What’s the plan?” Kurt body-checked someone who tried to force their way between us. He apologized with half an ounce of sincerity, “Sorry, bud, didn’t see you there.”
My smile radiated and I stopped it before it became all-out laughter. Seeing Kurt body-check someone floated my boat.
“I’m going to talk to Locke, probably not shoot him.” Might arrest him, though. Or I might just call Metro and let them deal with him.
“Probably not?” Kurt’s tone suggested probably might not be the right word.
“Can’t make any promises.”
His voice filled with a smile. “Conway, how many days until your wedding?”
Subtle.
“Not enough to go through an internal inquiry because I shot Locke, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“I was merely asking how many days.”
Not believing that for a second.
“Seven. Seven days.”
“Yeah, you’re right, if you shoot Locke now, the inquiry could mess up your honeymoon plans.”
Hence, I probably won’t shoot him. Unless I’m forced, in which case, it’d be a righteous shooting. With a bit of luck, they’d find a weapon on him. Have I really become someone who thinks that’s an okay thing?
I hoped not. I hoped it was stress causing fucky thinking.
A woman barged past me, knocking her shopping bags into me. I stepped sideways and controlled the urge to ankle-tap her.
What the hell is wrong with people?
A scowl formed, as tension mounted.
“Conway?” Kurt’s hand touched my forearm. “Relax your hand.”
My what?
I looked down. My left hand had made a fist. I uncurled my fingers and shook my hand. Kurt wasn’t done yet, I could tell by the pressure on my forearm.
“What?” I asked.
“Take your right hand off your weapon.”
I didn’t even know I had my hand wrapped around the grip of my Glock. A warning bell sounded in my head. Might be the right time to consider a career change before I become someone who shoots first and covers it up afterward or worse.
I lifted my hand and dropped it to my side. My knuckles complained. I wanted to open and close my hand a few times to release the tension but the reward would be more pain and I wasn’t going there.
“Bit tense,” I offered as an explanation.
“Shake it off, Conway, we don’t want any accidents.”
I nodded. “I’m good.”
His sideways look intimated he doubted the sincerity of my words. He might know me better than I care to admit. Or he might think he does. It seemed smart to say nothing and not push him to a place where it’d go badly for me.
I looked around, taking stock of the buildings and numbers on doors. We were half a block away. I looked back down the street and found it hard to believe that Locke senior didn’t know where his son hid. They lived within three blocks of each other.
“How far?” Kurt asked as I turned back to the view ahead.
“Half a block.”
I filled Kurt in on my thoughts regarding Locke and how I considered his good friend Chief Cookson could be protecting him to a certain extent. Always a good idea to have as much information as possible.
Carry On Wayward Son
“Let me do the talking,” I said to Kurt as we stood in the foyer of the building. “We’re taking the stairs.”
“What floor?”
“Two.”
We climbed in silence. This stairwell smelled as bad as every other stairwell I’d been in recently.
Kurt opened the door to the second floor. There is nothing wrong with men opening doors for women. It should be encouraged.
I walked down the off-white hallway until I found apartment ten. I knocked with my left hand and stood aside so I couldn’t be seen through the peephole.
Listening.
Nothing.
He might’ve gone out but I doubted it. After all, there was a warrant out for his arrest. Here he was, hiding in plain sight in an apartment rented under his company’s name. I bet he still worked too. I knocked again.
Kurt said, “He might be out?”
“He’s there,” I said as the door swung open.
Face to face with Charles Locke Junior, I smiled. “Mr. Locke. I’m Ellie Conway. I’d like to have a word.”
“I’m a busy man.” His eyes darted around the hallway. He took a step back when he saw Kurt.
Nervous?
“We won’t take up much of your time, sir.” Being polite to an ass like him wasn’t easy. Down the hall, a door opened a crack: someone interested in our presence. “Might pay to invite us in, unless you want your neighbors involved.”
His door moved. I stuck my foot in the way preventing him from closing it.
“That’s not very friendly,” Kurt said, shoving the door hard and taking Locke by surprise. He staggered back.
We entered the apartment and closed the door behind us.
“Who are you?” Locke said, recovering enough to regain his footing.
“FBI,” I replied, moving my jacket so he could see my weapon and my badge. “Any more questions?”
He shook his head.
“Have a seat, Charles, or do they call you Chuck?” Kurt said, pointing to a chair in the living room.
“No one calls me Chuck,” he said and sat.
Guess Christine is no one if no one calls him Chuck. Asshole confirmed.
“This is where you tell us about Mallory Stevens and your relationship with her,” I said, sitting opposite him.
His eyes darted around the room. “Why would I do that?” A smarmy smile settled on his face.
“Because you’re a lawyer and you know we wouldn’t be here if we didn’t have evidence of a relationship.”
“What has my relationship with Mallory got to do with you?”
“We’re interested and right now we’re talking about Ms. Stevens but if you don’t play nice, we might start talking about the whereabouts of your wife.” Locke’s smile faded. “Remember her? You beat the crap out of her then disappeared.” His smile disappeared. “Something about that feel familiar?” I turned to Kurt.
He held up his phone. “Want me to call Metro?”
“Yeah, I think so.”
“What did you want to know about Mallory?”
“Hold that thought,” I said to Kurt and then focused on Locke. “How long have you been seeing each other?”
“A few months.”
“How many months?”
I watched him trying to come up with a number.
“Four, I think.”
“You sure about that?”
He nodded. “As far as I can remember.”
“You beat your wife three weeks ago and promptly disappeared. So, you were having an affair?”
“Looks that way,” he replied; the smarm had crept back in.
“Where’s your wife?”
He looked directly into my eyes. “At home. She got the house. I got a restraining order. I haven’t contacted her in three weeks.”
“Okay.” I let it go. My interest in Locke pertained to his relationship with Mallory Stevens and the death of Phoebe Childs and possibly the other women. “When did you last see your sister-in-law?”
“I don’t know.”
“Try again, Charles. This time, aim for the truth.”
“A few weeks ago, maybe.”
“Can we skip the bullshit and just get on with it?” I said, failing to keep the irritation from my voice.
“I don’t know what you mean, Agent.”
“I’d like to know if I’m going to find your fingerprints in Phoebe’s house.”
“Probably, she is my sister-in-law, we visited.”
“Where was she living?”
He frowned. “She sold her house recently and moved in with her girlfriend.”
“Did she?”
“Yes.”
“Got an address?”
He pointed to a sideboard and a notebook. “I need that book.”
Kurt walked across the room and picked it up. He passed it to Locke. He flipped pages until he found an address and read out the address where we found Phoebe dead. But we knew she didn’t live there. We also knew she’d recently bought that house and had intended to have a house-warming party there. Something changed in the weeks after the purchase. She wanted people to think she was living there. Why?
“Who was she living with?”
“I don’t know. She never mentioned a name.”
“And you didn’t ask?” I found that hard to believe.
“Why so much interest in Phoebe?” Locke asked. “Does she need a lawyer? I know a few.”