Natural Suspect (2001) Page 11

  "Well, that hand tells me that whatever Kellogg knew, Stefan and his employers know, too."

  "Such brutes. If they had half a brain, they would have known that a pair of talented lips in just the right spot would have gotten more out of Kellogg than any oversized, cross-dressing torture master ever could."

  Without warning, Harrison brought his hook up under Sissy s chin, forcing her onto her tiptoes.

  "Sissy, mark my words," he said through clenched teeth. "If I learn that you're holding out on us, you're going to need prostheses in places they haven't invented them for."

  He lowered the hook and brushed the curved edge up her crotch. Then he whirled and stormed from the shop.

  Shaken, Sissy sank to the corner of the bed. His loss to Stefan Ghorse aside, Harrison was as brilliant, tough, and determined as anyone in the agency--most definitely someone to be careful of, and if necessary, to be dealt with. It was several minutes before she felt able to stand. As she did, there was a firm knock on the alley door behind her.

  "Yes?" she said.

  Its me.

  Sissy opened the door a crack, then all the way.

  "Where in the hell were you when I needed you?" she said.

  It's a strange world, Ms. McGee . . . There's more to it than you know . . . Talk to the reporter . . . Patrick Roswell ... I think you two should get together. . . Not everyone wants you to lose . . .

  Devin propped her feet up on her desk and replayed the bizarre exchange with the even more bizarre Fran. The Hightower case had been strange from the beginning. With limitless piles of money at her disposal, and a case against her that was hardly open and shut, Julia had eschewed the high-powered firms in favor of a young solo practitioner with a limited, albeit reasonably impressive, record as a criminal attorney.

  Why?

  Julia had never told Devin the reason she had been chosen as her defense counsel, but subsequently, Joe Kellogg, the Hightower familys attorney, took credit for recommending her. Never taking his eyes off her breasts, he had praised her work on behalf of the son of a friend of his, whom Devin had gotten cleared of an assault charge. In fact, she had put together a rather brilliant defense for the kid, but enough to justify placing a billionaire s wife in her hands? Extremely doubtful.

  Why?

  Now, with the case against Julia still riding a motive/method/opportunity high, she was being told by a gigantic wacko with a blond wig that there was more to this case than she knew, and that Julias survival might depend on a reporter named Roswell.

  "What in the hell is going on?" Devin said out loud.

  Retrieving the phone book from the shelf across her office would have meant taking her feet off her desk and thus leaving her favorite comfort zone. Instead, she pulled the phone over by the cord and dialed information. Why not? she thought as she wrote down the number of the Gazette. With a $20,000 retainer in the bank, she could afford to run up telephone expenses like the big boys.

  "The Gazette, may I help you?" the receptionist asked, her accent heavy Brooklyn. Devin thought she could hear the woman snapping her gum.

  "I'm trying to locate a reporter named Patrick Roswell," she said.

  "We got a Patrick Roswell working here, ma'am, but he ain't no reporter. He's in sales."

  "Sales?"

  "You know, advertising."

  Devin lowered her feet to the floor.

  "He sells advertising?"

  "That's what I said."

  "Why did Wacko say he was a reporter?" Devin thought out loud.

  "What?"

  "Oh, sorry. Could I speak to Mr. Roswell, please?"

  "If he was here, you probably could."

  Devin wanted to reach through the phone and rip out the receptionist's tongue. Surly, ill-spoken, and snapping gum--the perfect company spokeswoman.

  "My name's Devin McGee. I'd like to leave my number for Mr. Roswell and have him call me back."

  "He's got voice mail. Dial back and punch in extension two-two-seven-four instead of 'O' like you did."

  "Can't you connect me?"

  "Nope."

  Jerk, Devin thought.

  "Well thanks a million anyway," she said.

  "Wait a minute. Devin McGee. You that Hightower ladys lawyer?"

  I am, yes.

  "Well I been watchin the case on Court TV every chance I get. You're doing a great job. Keep up the good work."

  "Why, thank you," Devin said, genuinely flattered, and now placing the receptionist closer to Marie Curie than to jerk.

  "I still think she done it, though," the woman said. Then she hung up.

  Devin listened to the dial tone for half a minute, after which she called Patrick Roswell's line and left a message on his voice mail.

  Not everyone wants you to lose. . . .

  Devin pictured her Toyota being blown to smithereens. Not everyone wanted her to live, either.

  There's more to it than you know. . . .

  "You got it right there, Fran," Devin said.

  She emptied the contents of the thick Hightower file onto her desk and flipped through it for the hundredth time. Nothing new leapt out at her.

  More than you know . . .

  Devin snatched up the phone and dialed the Hightower mansion. Julia was there, and clearly well into her cups. Devin knew she might be doing a farewell fandango on her high-profile, $20,000 case, but she needed some answers that only her inebriated client could provide.

  "Have some black coffee, Julia," she said. "I'm coming out to ask you some questions. . . . No, no, Julia, I'm going to drive my rental car out there and ask you some questions. So go take an ice-cold shower. Because if you can't or won't deal with me straight, it's find another lawyer."

  Jack Powell used a toothbrush to scrub out the corners of the meat slicer, even though the machine was, as was everything else in the little restaurant, spotless. He was a neatness freak to the point where even Janie got annoyed with him sometimes, but he knew that nothing could shut a place like theirs down quicker than a mouse, or a roach, or even some scum on a knife. He was a black man operating an eatery in a predominantly white neighborhood. There were people anxious to see their place go under. Well, it wasn't going to happen. Even though the restaurant was still struggling, even though he was on the phone with loan people almost weekly asking for a little more time, it wasn't going to happen. His mother had emptied what was left of her bank account to help them get started. Now, with the baby on the way, there was no chance they could pay her back in the foreseeable future--at least there wasn't before he got the notice calling him to jury duty.

  Julia Hightower. When Jack realized that he was being examined to sit on her jury, his heart almost stopped. What justice. What luck! He had answered the attorneys' questions with the care he gave to keeping his restaurant clean. When he learned he had been selected as one of the twelve, he nearly let out a whoop of joy.

  "You all right, Jack?" Janie asked.

  Startled, Jack looked across to where his pregnant wife was arranging the napkin holders and condiments just so on each table.

  "Huh? Oh, sure," he said, "I'm fine. Just lost in thought."

  "About the trial?"

  "No," he lied, "about the baby. Listen, hon, I'm going to go for a walk to clear my head."

  "Want company?"

  "Maybe later. I'll be back in half an hour. Want anything? Ice cream? Pickles?"

  "No, no. I'm fine."

  She came over, put her arms around him, and nestled her head against his chest. He buried his face in her hair. She smelled so perfect, so clean.

  "We're gonna have a wonderful baby," he whispered. "And she's gonna have the best mom in the world. I'll be back in a little while."

  He released her gently and headed toward the door.

  "Jack?"

  "Yes?"

  "You sure everything's okay?"

  "Honey, things couldn't be better. Trust me on that."

  He took another step.

  "Jack?"

  "
Yes?"

  "Have you heard anything from that man with . . . with the missing toe?"

  "Nope. I hope we do, though. He's wearing some of my clothes."

  "Why do you think he didn't want to go to the hospital?"

  "No idea. Maybe he's just scared of doctors."

  "Maybe so. The way that toe was sliced off looked like he had just seen one."

  Powell chuckled at the thought.

  "You go on back and put your feet up, Janie. I'll stop by the deli on the way back and bring you some of that halvah you like so much."

  Jack walked three blocks before picking out a pay phone. Janie loved walking, and this was not the time to have her catch up with him. As he dialed, he pictured his mother in her two-room apartment on One-eighteenth, tidying up as always. He also imagined his older brother Marshall twitching and grimacing in his wheelchair, watching some mindless cartoons, or worse, some lousy talk show. Marshall was an absolute dear, but his limited IQ and limiting cerebral palsy made the future elements of his life a certainty--home care until his mother couldn't handle it anymore, then an institution.

  "Hey, Ma, what's happenin'?" Jack said.

  "Jackie, what's all that traffic noise? You callin' me from a pay phone? Is everything all right? Janie? The baby?"

  "Everything's fine, Ma. How's Marshall doing?"

  "Same as ever. He's been watchin' The Beverly Hillbillies. I really think that's his favorite show."

  Jack shook his head sadly. Mother Teresa could have taken lessons from Loretta Powell. A brain-damaged child out of wedlock at age fifteen. Twin boys also out of wedlock two years later. Eventually, Loretta had pulled herself together, finished high school, and even a medical assistant's course. The state offered some help for her debilitated child, but they demanded he be institutionalized to get it. Loretta would have none of that. There was some money--from Marshall s father, she said. But that account was empty now. Loretta and Marshall lived off her part-time job as receptionist in a doctor's office, small checks from Jack when he could, and once in a while, even a little from his twin brother, Wyn. Wyn Powell had tried and lost as a professional boxer, and was fortunate to have gotten out of the ring with his brain mostly intact. Now he worked as an equipment man in one of Harlem's smelliest gyms, and as a corner man for the dregs of the sport.

  "You're doing a great job with him, Ma," Jack said.

  "Why shouldn't I? He's my son. Speaking of which, have you heard from Wyn?"

  "Not for a week or so. But I think everything's fine with him."

  "I wish he'd get married. Find someone like your Janie."

  "He will, Ma. You need anything?"

  "Just for you and Janie and Wyn to be well."

  "Take care, Ma. We'll be by later in the week."

  "Good-bye, son."

  Loretta had never talked about Jack's and Wyn's father except to say that he was a kind man who needed to find himself. She never spoke of Marshall's father, either, but as Jack grew older, it was clear to him that that whoever it was, he was white. The man's identity had remained Loretta's secret for nearly twenty-five years. Then, home on leave and searching a bottom dresser drawer for his birth certificate, Jack had stumbled on the letter.

  Jack dropped in another quarter and dialed the gym.

  "Wyn, what's the deal?" he asked when his twin was finally brought to the phone.

  "I can't get ahold of him."

  "Whaddaya mean? He's got an office, doesn't he?"

  "Yeah, but they keep telling me he's not in."

  "You leave your name?"

  "Of course I left my name. I told him I was callin' about Loretta Powell, just like you said to."

  "Damn it, Wyn. We've got to talk to him. He's the one who sent that letter. He's the one who's going to come up with the money. Keep callin' him."

  "I will. I will."

  "Ma needs that money. So does Marshall. And damn it, Wyn, so do we."

  Years before, when he found the letter, Jack had called the lawyer who wrote it and demanded money for his mother. Joe Kellogg had simply laughed.

  "We got papers, son," he had said. "Papers signed by your mother after she turned twenty-one. Papers that'll stand up in any court. We sent Loretta money for twenty years, and she's not getting another cent."

  Jack had pushed matters, claiming that whatever she was sent wasn't nearly enough, but Kellogg wouldn't budge.

  "Don't you dare try to shake me down, son," he warned.

  When Jack persisted, Kellogg apparently contacted Loretta. Jack would never know what the lawyer had said to his mother, but he knew fear in the woman when he saw it. And when she demanded that he let the whole matter drop, Loretta Powell was scared stiff.

  Jack encouraged Wyn to keep trying. Then he slammed the receiver down. The letter hadn't said as much, and Loretta absolutely refused to speak of the matter, but in time Jack had deduced that Arthur Hightower had to be Marshall's father. At his mother's insistence, he had let the matter drop, at least for the time being. Then, with Hightowers murder and subsequent cremation, it seemed that all hope had died. But now, the weapon of justice and retribution had been placed in his hands--a jury summons.

  McGinty's Meats was a vast, single-story warehouse on the river side of the West Side Highway, not far from the permanently docked aircraft carrier Intrepid. Patrick paid off the cabbie and approached the south-side entrance as the giant clown had instructed. His foot was throbbing, but the notion that soon it might be whole again dampened some of the pain. In a short while, after he had helped the police find Kelloggs body in meat locker three, he would go to a specific alley on West Sixtieth between Seventh and Eighth, and find his toe in a cooler behind some barrels. He would then be off to the Hospital of Bone and Joint Surgery for replantation.

  The huge clown's instructions had been quite specific, including the description Patrick was to give the police of the man who had tortured him and tipped him off about Kelloggs body. If he tried any shortcuts or double crosses, he would be revisited by his grease-painted nemesis and divested of another, far more essential body part.

  For nearly ten minutes Patrick stood outside the door on the loading dock shivering against a harsh wind. He had been warned not to go inside until the police arrived. Finally he heard the sirens approaching. Moments later an unmarked sedan and a cruiser pulled up. A rumpled, cadaverous man wearing a fur-lined parka introduced himself as Detective Guttman.

  "I understand you know where I can find the rest of Joe Kellogg," he said.

  Patrick shivered from a sudden chill that had nothing to do with meteorology.

  "The rest?" he asked.

  "Yeah," Guttman replied. "What we have so far is his right hand. It was delivered in a box to Robert Rutledge, the Wall Street money man. Kelloggs prints popped up because of a driving-under arrest he had a few years ago. Now, where's the body?"

  "My--um--source said it was in meat locker three," he said.

  Guttman opened the door to the warehouse and stepped inside. There seemed to be no one around.

  "See if you can find someone," he ordered one of the uniformed cops. "You been in here yet?" he asked Patrick. "No."

  "Why're you limping?"

  "A man drugged me in a bar, then cut off my toe."

  "Oh," Guttman said matter-of-factly, clearly jaded by his years with the NYPD. "Where did he do that, here?"

  "I don't know where, but it wasn't here."

  "And he gave you the tip about Kelloggs body?" "He did."

  "Why would he do that?"

  "I dont know. Detective, could we get on down to locker three? My foot is killing me."

  "Why do you think this guy just took your toe, and not your hand like Kellogg?"

  "I have no idea."

  "You know Robert Rutledge?"

  "I've heard of him. That's all." Patrick flashed on his toe sitting in a Playmate Cooler behind some trash barrels on West Sixtieth. "Please," he begged.

  "Okay, let's go see what you've got."

&nb
sp; At that moment, John Whitechapel burst through the door behind them with a rotund photographer named Dave Salazar. Patrick made clumsy introductions. Guttman acted as if he couldn't care less about the newspaper editor, but he gave strict instructions to the photographer to shoot only what Guttman told him to shoot. The three newsmen and two remaining policemen stood back as Guttman shoved open the door to locker three. They walked down the rows of chilled meat carcasses, then back. Nothing.

  "You sure it was room three?" Guttman asked.

  " "That's what he said."

  They checked the other two cold rooms. Nothing. The uniformed cop returned with the manager of McGinty's, a short balding man who stuttered badly. The man stammered that he was never away from the warehouse during business hours, and had seen nothing suspicious over the past two days.

  Guttman took the manager's news and the absence of the promised corpus delicti in stride, but John Whitechapel was livid.

  "This is the last straw, Roswell," he blustered. "As of this moment, you're suspended from the paper until you present me with a letter from a bona fide psychiatrist certifying that you're sane. And if any shrink does give you one, I'll want a letter from his shrink certifying he's sane!"

  Without waiting for a response, he grabbed his photographer by the arm and dragged him from McGintys.

  "Tsk, tsk," Guttman said. "There goes one unhappy camper." He led his entourage out to their cars. "Roswell, I think you've got to come down to the station and answer some questions."

  >

  I can t.

  "Excuse me, but that's not a response we were taught to accept in the police academy."

  "It's my toe. The guy who cut it off told me where the cooler is containing it. I've got to get it and have it sewn back on before it's too late."

  "This guy, what did he look like?"

  Patrick debated telling the truth or the lie he had been instructed by the clown to tell. He was being systematically destroyed by the man, he acknowledged, but this was hardly the time to be rebellious.

  "I don't know his name," he said, "but he was about six feet tall, thin, and dressed all in black. He had a real narrow face and, oh yes, he had a hook instead of a hand."

  "What?"

  "A hook. His left hand was missing and instead he had one of those steel hooks. Now, can I please go?"