Authors: James Swain
CHAPTER NINETEEN
I
waited until the tourists were gone before getting back in my car.
Then I called Burrell on my cell. She answered on the first ring.
“Jed Grimes didn’t kidnap his son,” I said.
“You’re sure about that,” Burrell said.
“Yes.”
“I’m inside the Operations Center trailer next to Jed Grimes’s house. Why don’t you come over here? I want to show you something.”
I drove to Jed’s house and parked next to the OC trailer. Buster was snoozing on the passenger seat, and I rolled down the windows before getting out.
I found Burrell sitting at a desk inside the trailer, sucking down a Gatorade. Her clothes were drenched in sweat, and she looked miserable. The trailer was jammed with equipment, including a dozen phone lines, two computers, and three TV sets that stayed on 24/7. I grabbed the only other chair, and sat down across from her.
“Jed’s guilty,” Burrell said.
“What did you find?” I asked.
Four photographs were lying facedown on the desk. Burrell flipped the first one over, revealing a surfer dude with shoulder-length blond hair. “This is Ronnie Wild, Jed’s best friend. Ronnie was in the house with Jed the night Sampson was kidnapped. Every time we interview Ronnie, he tells us something new. This morning, Ronnie told us that Jed left the house when his son was kidnapped, and went next door to see a neighbor.”
“I know,” I said.
Burrell looked surprised. “Jed told you?”
“Yes.”
“Did Jed tell you who his neighbor was?”
“He said his neighbor peddled drugs, and he wanted to score a joint from him.”
Burrell flipped over the second photograph. “This is Jed’s neighbor, a drug-pushing lowlife named Cody Barnes. Barnes has been peddling drugs since he was fifteen years old. Mostly weed, but also coke. Now, here’s where it gets interesting.”
Burrell flipped over the last two photographs. They were both aerial shots, and showed two Hispanic guys, one skinny and missing several teeth, the other older and overweight. It was the same pair I’d chased on I-95 that morning.
“Where did you get these?” I asked.
“They’re from the DEA, courtesy of my friend with the FBI. The skinny one’s named Pepito Suarez, and his partner just goes by Oscar. They’re Colombian hit men. They worked for the Cali drug cartel, then got involved in a shootout down in Miami and killed two DEA agents. They’ve been on the run ever since. Word is, they hire themselves out to drug dealers, and help them collect their money.”
“These are the guys I saw this morning,” I said.
“That’s what I figured. Guess who they’re friends with?”
“I have no idea.”
Burrell tapped the photograph of Cody Barnes. “Jed’s neighbor, that’s who.”
“And you think Jed asked Cody Barnes to hire these goons to watch his son,” I said.
“That’s exactly what I think.”
I pushed myself away from the desk. The scenario Burrell was suggesting looked great on paper, and that’s the only place it looked good. It had FBI written all over it, and I sensed that Burrell’s friend at the Bureau was behind it.
“You’re wrong, and so’s your friend at the FBI,” I said.
Burrell threw her Gatorade at my head. I ducked, and heard the bottle hit the wall.
“Prove it,” she said angrily.
Scotch-taped to the wall were several photographs of Sampson, and I pulled down the one that showed him riding a bright blue tricycle.
“See this tricycle?” I said. “I saw it in the backyard of Jed’s house, along with a dozen toys and a plastic swimming pool. I also saw a bedroom filled with toys, and cute wallpaper with cartoon characters. Do you know how much that stuff costs?”
Burrell shook her head. The look on her face said she wanted to kill me.
“Try hundreds and hundreds of dollars,” I said.
“So what?”
“Jed Grimes was trying to be a good father.”
“What does that have to do with this?”
“Everything. What kind of father hires a pair of professional killers to guard his son?”
Burrell swallowed hard. “A bad one.”
“That’s right, a bad one. Bad fathers feed their kids cold SpaghettiOs and let them watch X-rated movies. They don’t buy them tricycles and expensive toys.”
I picked up her bottle of Gatorade from the floor, and put it on the desk. Then I headed for the door. “You’re going down the wrong road. Jed Grimes is a victim. If you arrest him, you’ll end up ruining your career. I’d be willing to put money on it.”
Burrell sank down into her chair. “What should I do?”
“You need to refocus your investigation. Yesterday I gave the chief a photograph of Sampson sitting in a dog crate in a hotel room. Has anyone tried to figure out which hotel chain the photo was taken in?”
“The techs examined it. They couldn’t tell which hotel it was.”
“Then call Sally Haskell. She should be able to help us.”
“I thought Sally was running security for Disney,” Burrell said.
“She is. A guy on her staff is an expert at identifying hotel interiors. He helped me find a man who’d abducted his daughter, and was sending his ex-wife photos. Sally’s guy identified the hotel chain they were staying in, and where it was located.”
“I’ll call her right now.”
I opened the door while continuing to stare at Burrell. I had trained her the same way I’d trained every detective who’d ever worked for me. It was all about following your instincts. She was losing sight of that, and letting outsiders cloud her judgment.
“How long did you work for me?” I asked.
“Six and a half years,” she said.
“What was the first thing I ever taught you?”
“It’s all about the kid.”
“I’ll talk to you later,” I said.
I drove to a convenience store a few blocks away, buying a package of cupcakes and a Dr Pepper for myself, some beef jerky for Buster. I had stopped eating junk food years ago, except when I was working a case. Then it was the only thing I ate.
As I paid up, I saw a stack of local newspapers by the register. The headline read
NIGHT STALKER TO DIE
. I bought a copy, and read the article in my car.
The article didn’t say anything new. Abb would be executed by lethal injection in three days. The governor wasn’t going to stop it, and none of the organizations against capital punishment were voicing a protest. His time had run out.
The article had a sidebar that talked about the seven Jane Does. Forensic imaging had been performed on each victim using pictures of their skulls in the hope that someone might recognize them. I looked at their faces long and hard. Maybe someday we’d know who they were. But I had a feeling that someday was a long way off.
My cell phone rang as I was pulling out of the lot. I pulled the phone off the Velcro on the dash, and flipped it open.
“Carpenter here.”
“My name is Charles Crippen,” a man with a deep voice said. “You may have heard of me. I own a law firm in town.”
I had heard of Charles Crippen. He was considered one of the better lawyers in south Florida. “What can I do for you, Mr. Crippen?” I replied.
“One of my employees has gone missing. I need you to find her.”
“I’m sorry, but I’m working a case.”
“Her name is Piper Stone. She was in the process of filing an appeal for a stay of execution for Abb Grimes, and now no one can find her.”
An icy finger ran down the length of my spine. I turned my wheels so my vehicle was pointed at the street.
“Give me your address,” I said.
CHAPTER TWENTY
C
rippen & Howe had been advertising on billboards throughout the county since I was a kid. The ads showed two men. Charles Crippen, the firm’s elder statesman, wore a neatly trimmed goatee and a yachtsman’s deep tan, while his partner, Bernie Howe, was a bulldog with a bad hair replacement job. Their law firm occupied a two-story Spanish colonial on Broward Boulevard surrounded by an imposing wrought-iron fence.
I parked in the private lot behind the building, grabbed my dog, and walked down a sidewalk to the front entrance. The gate was locked, and I pressed the buzzer while looking into the lens of a boxy security camera.
“May I help you?” a woman’s voice said over the intercom.
“Jack Carpenter for Charles Crippen.”
“Is he
expecting
you?”
“I’m here about Piper Stone.”
“Stay right there.”
I waited. The sun was shining and sweat poured down my back. Finally, the receptionist returned. “Mr. Crippen will see you now.”
She buzzed me in, and I walked up the brick path and entered the building. The reception area was no more than an alcove. Behind a desk sat a woman with a hairdo that looked like a Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade float. She came out of her chair like she’d been hit with a cattle prod. “Sir, no dogs are allowed in the building.”
“You let criminals in here every day,” I said. “Drug dealers, murderers, rapists. But you’re telling me dogs aren’t allowed. How does that work?”
Before she could respond, Charles Crippen entered the alcove. He was tall, and wore a dark pin-striped suit and blazing red tie. He asked me to follow him.
Crippen’s office was on the second floor of the building. It was enormous, with furnishings befitting a king. Once the door was closed, he sat at his desk and undid his necktie. He started to speak, then noticed Buster standing by my side.
“Is he with you?” Crippen asked.
“Never seen him before,” I replied.
“I heard you were a character. Please have a seat.”
I pulled up a chair and sat down while Buster lay dutifully beside me.
“It all started last night,” Crippen said. “I came back from a client meeting, and found Piper in her office. It was about nine-thirty. I assumed she was preparing for her murder trial today. Then I glanced at the pages on her desk, and saw the transcript from Abb Grimes’s murder trial. I asked her what she was doing, and Piper told me she’d found something very disturbing.
“I left shortly after that. Piper’s a bright lady, and I knew she was on to something. When I came in this morning, she was still here, and was all fired up. She said she’d found a basis for a new appeal, and was going to investigate it further.”
“Did she say what it was?” I asked.
“It was something to do with slippers.”
“Men’s or women’s?”
“She didn’t say. Piper was supposed to be at the courthouse at eleven o’clock for the opening arguments in another trial. She told me she was going to stop at Memorial Hospital first, and talk to someone regarding these slippers.”
“Did she say who?”
“Some detective who’s been ill.”
“Was it Ron Cheeks?”
Crippen plumbed his memory. “Yes, that was the name. Piper left after we spoke, and hasn’t been seen since. She was a no-show at the courthouse, and hasn’t called in. That’s when I called the police.”
“What have the police done?”
“They went to Piper’s apartment and got the superintendent to let them in. There was no evidence of foul play. They also put out an APB on her car. As you know, that’s about all they can do.”
“Did they search her office?”
Crippen lowered his hands. “They wanted to, but I was fearful that they’d see her files. She’s working on several important cases right now, and they’re spread across her office.”
“Can I take a look?”
“Certainly.”
Crippen led me down a hallway lined with polished wooden doors. Stone’s office sat next to the copy room, and screamed new hire. Metal desk, a laptop, a couple of old chairs, and a diploma from the University of Miami Law School hanging on the wall. There were no personal items, save for a framed photo of Stone cuddling a Lab puppy.
“May I?” I asked.
“Of course,” Crippen replied.
I sat at Stone’s desk. It was covered with the transcript from Abb Grimes’s trial along with a number of police reports. Stone had brightened the lines on several pages with a yellow highlighter, and I read those sections first. What I saw made my eyes pop.
Ron Cheeks’s name was everywhere. He’d been the first detective to arrive at the Smart Buy, and had also handled the subsequent investigation. While it was his partner who’d arrested Abb and testified at his trial, it was Cheeks who’d run the show.
I pored through the transcript. Toward the back was an evidence log showing the various items that were taken from Abb’s home after his arrest. Stone had highlighted the word
slippers,
and written something in cryptic scrawl beside it. I showed the writing to Crippen.
“This make any sense to you?” I asked.
Crippen slipped on a pair of bifocals and studied the writing. “It says, ‘Where did they go?’ I assume she’s referring to the slippers.”
“That’s what she went to see Cheeks about. Abb Grimes’s slippers.”
“That would be a fair assumption.”
“And no one’s heard from her since.”
“That’s correct.”
The phone on Stone’s desk rang. Crippen snatched it up and said hello. Then he looked at me and shook his head. He hung up.
“Has anyone bothered to check Stone’s voice mail?” I asked.
“I did,” Crippen replied.
“Recently?”
“Several hours ago.”
“Let’s check it again.”
Crippen punched a code into the phone, and put it on speaker. There were six messages stored in Stone’s voice mail. We listened to several seconds of each before Crippen saved them. Each was from a client, until the very last. The last message sounded like a crank call, with music by Gloria Estefan and the Miami Sound Machine pouring out of the speaker. It lasted for about ten seconds, then abruptly stopped.
“Did you hear that sound in the background?” I asked.
Crippen had brought his ear a few inches from the speaker. “No, but I’m half deaf. What did you hear?”
“It sounded like a voice. Play it again.”
Crippen replayed the message. The sound was too faint to be discernible. Crippen said, “Let me get a better phone,” and went to the office next door to get a newer phone, which he put on the desk. Over this phone, the message was much clearer.
“It
is
a voice,” Crippen said.
“I think it’s a woman.”
“What is she saying?”
“I’m not sure. We need more volume.”
Crippen cranked up the phone’s volume and replayed the message. We both leaned in to listen. The voice was a woman’s, and she sounded as if she was at the bottom of a deep hole.
“Somebody help me!”
“Is that her?” I asked.
Crippen opened his mouth, but no words came out. It was all the answer I needed.