Dead End Fix (5 page)

“I'm so sorry for your loss, Mr. Jackson.” Micki Petty pointed toward a green plastic chair on one side of a long Formica table. “This is a tragic time for you and your family, and we thank you for making the effort to come down. It can't be easy to talk about this.”

Jim DeVilla stood against the wall and nodded toward Vester Jackson. Micki was better with the kind words. He'd stand back and read the room.

“And you're Benji's brother,” Micki said to the man entering the third-floor conference room at Seattle police headquarters. She pulled out a chair next to his father, but he walked wordlessly to the end of the table.

“Please excuse my son,” Vester said. “His mother didn't raise him to be rude. I'll introduce him myself since he doesn't seem to have found his voice this morning. My son's name is Bayonne.”

“Nice to meet you, Bayonne. Again, we're sorry for your family's loss.” He didn't answer and Micki took a seat across from Vester Jackson.

Jim kept his eyes on Bayonne.

“Mr. Jackson,” Micki began.

“Folks call me Vester.”

“Vester,” Micki continued in a sympathetic tone. “I was there.” She looked toward Jim. “So was Detective DeVilla. We were both on the scene…just after Benji was killed. People there knew your son. They called him Banjo. That's a darling nickname.”

Vester nodded. “Come from when he was just a little thing. Always need to be on somebody's knee, that one. Didn't matter if he knew you or not. You sittin' down, that boy climbin' up on you.”

Micki's smile was sad. Jim remembered how she had caressed the dead boy, trying to comfort the preteen lying in a pool of blood.

“They were devastated when they saw it was Benji who had been shot,” she said.

Jim saw a wave of misery crash over the bereaved father. He knew Vester Jackson to be forty-three years old, but on this sad day he looked twenty years older. Vester was a big man, carrying at least 275 pounds on a six-foot-two frame. He looked burdened with a weight so permanent it might as well be skin. Jim had run a make on him in preparation for the morning meeting. Vester Jackson had no arrests, outstanding warrants, or civil fines pending. The only records on file were four instances of police summoned to the family's south-side home. The first had been six years earlier. The 911 call had been in response to a woman asking for assistance in calming her angry teenaged son. According to records, no arrest had been made. Three similar calls had been phoned in, the most recent two years ago, resulting in the arrest of Bayonne Jackson. He'd taken a swing at his father. Busted up some furniture and shoved his fist through an interior door. Bayonne Jackson had been twenty years old at the time. His public defender had cut a deal that landed him in jail for ten days. He had served his time and since then had been well known to the Seattle PD, who called him by his street name, Three Pop. Three Pop had a long arrest history for drugs, car thefts, and various assaults. Informants had made Three Pop to be the second-in-command of a powerful gang known as the Pico Underground. As such, he had access to the best lawyering in town. Despite the department's best efforts, Bayonne Jackson, aka Three Pop, hadn't spent more than a night in any city jail for the past two years.

“Banjo was a good boy,” Vester Jackson whispered. “I wasn't there for him the way I wanted to be. I drive a truck for Smydon Fish. Gotta be down at the docks at sunup to load my route. Banjo was home alone most mornings. But he got hisself to school. He's a good student. Never more than a C or two on his card. Mos'ly B's.” A sad smile tugged at his lips. “ 'Cept for gym class. That boy's a natural athlete. 'Specially basketball. Those classes he got straight A's.”

“He was a tall one, all right.” Micki looked toward the young man at the end of the table. “Both your boys got some vertical. You ever play ball, Bayonne?”

She got no response.

“Bayonne was a fine ballplayer,” Vester told them. “He was in middle school and those high school coaches already comin' by the games watchin' what he got to show. But he lost interest, I guess.” Vester paused. “I suspect the coaches would come lookin' for Banjo too. He was startin' middle school next year. Already an inch over six feet. Good ball-handlin' technique.” He paused again. “Guess we never gonna see what become of that now.”

“You said he was alone most mornings,” Micki said. “May I ask where Banjo's mother is?”

Jim watched the grief on Vester's face deepen. “Simone died. Been two years now.”

“I'm sorry,” Micki said.

“God's will, I s'pose.” Vester wiped a large hand over his face. “Took sick, got sicker. Next thing I know my Simi was gone.”

Bayonne squirmed in his chair. Jim saw the anger on his face as he forced his hands to lie flat on the table.

“Tough on a ten-year-old to lose his mama like that,” Vester continued. “But he seem to be doin' all right. Got hisself hooked up with a community center couple blocks from the house. After-school programs, hang with the kids, that kind of thing. He liked it there.” Vester looked toward his surviving son. “Yes, sir, never had one lick of trouble from Banjo. Everybody loved that boy. He never give me or Simi one day of disappointment.”

Bayonne shoved his chair back. Jim shifted his weight, ready to respond if Bayonne felt jumpy. The man caught his eye. Jim gave his best “not here, not now” glare. Bayonne stared back a challenge, but Jim held his gaze. Finally Bayonne looked away.

“Vester, I've got some rough questions to ask,” Micki said. “You up to this?”

“Now's as good as ever.”

“Did Benji talk about any trouble recently? Maybe at school? Or at the community center? Did he give you any reason to believe someone might be angry with him?”

“Like I said. Everybody loved Banjo. Teachers, coaches. He would sit with the little ones down at Our Joint. That's the name of the center…Our Joint. He'd go and sit with the kids from preschool and such. Show 'em their letters and colors. Play puzzles with them. You can ask anybody. They all love that boy.” His voiced cracked.

Micki shifted her attention to Bayonne, allowing Vester a moment to compose himself.

“How about you? There's ten years' difference between you and Benji. Sometimes a kid will tell his big brother stuff he wouldn't tell his parents.”

Bayonne looked away. He said nothing, but Jim could see his anger still simmered.

“Were the two of you close?” Micki asked.

Bayonne's jaw churned. His breathing was quick and shallow. It took a while for him to respond.

“He's my blood.” Bayonne looked at Jim. “We talk. We joke. Be there for one another.”

“Two of them had a standing basketball game,” Vester added. “Every Tuesday and Saturday. Down at the park.”

“You don't talk for me, old man.” Bayonne glared at his father. “They ask me a question, I'ma answer.” He turned back toward Jim. “No talk about any trouble. Like the old man say, everybody love Banjo.”

“How about those games?” Micki asked. “Two of you knew how to play. Anybody resent it? Can you think of someone who might have not taken kindly to losing a game of hoops to the Jackson brothers?”

“Nothin' like that. Sometimes we play with Banjo's group. I dumb my play, let the little ones win. Other time we play with my crew. Nobody show that boy favorites. Banjo wanna play with the big boys, they gonna school him. Banjo loved it. Made him better. Most times, though, it just Banjo and me on the court.”

Micki gave Jim a long look. He shrugged. There was nothing to be gained here.

Micki pushed herself up from her seat. “We're going to find out who's responsible for Benji's death, Mr. Jackson.” She looked down the table as Vester struggled to stand. “If you or your son have any ideas, no matter how odd they might seem, about who or why, I want you to call me. Day or night. Either of you.”

Vester Jackson shook her hand and headed out the door. Micki walked out behind him. Jim waited by the wall until Bayonne Jackson stood.

“I'd like a word, Bayonne.”

Bayonne sauntered toward him. “It matter if I mind?”

“Not really. You got a lot of anger, Three Pop. Daddy issues are dripping off you like sweat. Your father's going through a tough time. Can you cut him some slack?”

“You my buddy now?” Bayonne was six foot two, two hundred pounds of muscle. He threw his shoulders back and pulled himself tall. “Some kinda social worker?”

“You loved Banjo. Times like these, families can help one another.”

“You let me take care of mine.”

Jim pointed to a tattoo on Bayonne's face. Two teardrops outlined in dark ink.

“That second one there looks fresh.”

Bayonne said nothing.

“I'm guessing the first one's for your mom. Outlined. Mom died of natural causes. No reason for revenge. That one's always going to remain an outline, isn't it?”

“What you do, Mr. Detective? Watch some gangster movie? Maybe read yourself a handout?”

“But that second one. That's new as dawn. You got ideas of filling it in? Maybe finding who killed your brother and taking revenge?”

Bayonne stared at a spot somewhere behind Jim.

“You get any ideas who did this, you bring them to me. Understand? Shove any gangland notion you might have of hitting this bad guy first right out of your head. Because
revenge…justice…payback…whatever
the hell you want to call it—I'll haul your ass to jail without blinking, Three Pop. And no judge is going to care about some filled-in teardrop.”

Bayonne “Three Pop” Jackson brought his stare back to Jim. Then he stepped away. His shoulder bumped Jim's as he made his way to the door.

Lydia sat behind her communications console, eager to follow up on what Oliver had told her. She canceled her patients for the rest of the week, feigning a case of the flu. Most were sympathetic, offering home remedies sure to cure her symptoms. A few sounded irritated but were soothed when Lydia appealed to their own self-interest, assuring them the last thing she wanted was to infect them. She had to hold firm with only one. Audrey Sullivan was a thirty-four-year-old law student who was working with Lydia to break her habit of sexually acting out when she was under stress. When Lydia called to cancel their appointment, Audrey shrieked so loudly Lydia needed to hold the phone away from her ear.

“I have mock court coming up next week!”

“I have all the confidence in the world in you, Audrey.” Lydia faked a raspy voice for her panicked patient. “You know the topic. You've built your arguments. Use the tools we've discussed to stay calm and you'll be stunned how well you do.”

“But it's my first time in front of the whole class! I need to see you!”

“You'll be fine. We'll meet in two weeks. I can't wait to hear how it all turned out. In the meantime, if you feel any urge at all to troll campus bars, I want you to imagine my voice whispering in your ear.”

“I don't know.” Audrey's voice was shaky. “What's your voice telling me?”

“Knock it off! My voice is telling you to knock it off. Slow yourself down enough to use the skills you've learned. Do you understand me, Audrey? First sign of trouble, what are you going to do?”

“Hear your voice.”

“That's right.” Lydia coughed for effect. “And what am I saying?”

“Knock it off.”

“Goodbye, Audrey. I'll see you in two weeks.”

Oliver had assumed the beautiful woman he had slept with recently was one of Lydia's patients, out to create some drama. Lydia let him hold on to that. It seemed an easier explanation than the truth. How could she explain that the woman he knew as Cassie was actually Allie Grant, the sociopath daughter of Seattle's chief of detectives? A woman who had targeted him specifically to hurt Lydia? A woman who saw any obstacle standing in the way of what she wanted as an exercise in domination? Seduction, kidnapping, murder…they were tools Allie used to reach her goal.

Allie and Oliver had spoken about places to vacation. It was a long shot, but Lydia was fresh out of ideas. She entered a search for “BVI and Spanish Town.” Less than a second later she had an island name: Virgin Gorda, British Virgin Islands.

Next she searched area hotels and retreats. An internal radar hummed into readiness as she scanned the luxury sites. Virgin Gorda was not a place for the masses. It was dotted with exclusive—and wickedly expensive—accommodations. Hotels, spas, and retreats promising unparalleled service with complete discretion.

Just the type of place Allison Edith Grant would favor.

Lydia began with the most expensive hotel on the list. The Prince of Wales Hotel promised indulgent pampering from the moment the guest arrived on the island. Lydia was interested in two particular services offered in the hotel's extensive list of options: private heliport and on-site, prescreened nannies.

She targeted the hotel's central computer and her own system did its thing. Within ninety seconds she had full access to the hotel's electronic records. Lydia learned seven helicopters had landed on its property in the past ten days. Some names were recognizable. Movie stars, government figures, even one member of the Swedish royal family. Two landings were names she didn't know. Richard Flankinhauff had arrived in his private helicopter from a yacht anchored six miles offshore. Records indicated Flankinhauff had rented four poolside villas for him, his wife, their adult son, three bullmastiffs, and various support staff.

The other potential alias Allie could have used was Meredith Sinnow. The hotel's files showed Meredith had requested a month's stay in the Eaton Square Suite, along with an adjoining room for her nurse. The hotel manager had added an electronic note urging everyone to treat Meredith with special care. Apparently she was a frail seventy-three-year-old widow who'd been coming to the same suite every other year since her honeymoon fifty years earlier. This would be her first visit without her husband.

Lydia shifted tactics. Allie had a large criminal enterprise to run. She also was the type of woman who relished pampering herself. She might be looking to build a relationship with her niece, but Lydia didn't think Allie was up to the challenge of spending every waking moment with a seven-year-old. She scrolled through the hotel's database until she found the nanny schedule.

Nine requests for nannies had come in over the past two weeks. Lydia ignored requests for sitters for families with multiple children. That eliminated seven. Of the two remaining, one sought daily care for a three-year-old named Jeremy. The records showed Jeremy had an allergy to peanuts and was lactose intolerant. Jeremy's parents sought a nanny with experience in dealing with “spirited and willful youngsters.”

The other request had come in nine days earlier. It was identified by a reference number and sought an energetic and intelligent female nanny to care for what was described as “a bright and creative seven-year-old.” Care was required for eight hours daily. The guest demanded a signed confidentiality agreement and stressed the need for “utter and complete discretion.” The hotel had complied and assigned only an identification number. A young woman named Constance had been dispatched. Lydia blinked when she saw the hourly amount Constance was paid.

But that would be no obstacle for Allie.

The hotel required daily notes from its nannies. Lydia read Constance's daily electronic entries. They were unremarkable. Trips to the gift shop, one to a local museum. Bedtime routines. Preferences for games and stories. Constance was following the mandate to be discreet, using only pronouns and ID numbers when referring to her work.

Until her last entry.

Constance had gotten fired.

Guest asked me to take charge to rear of suite for bathing and bedtime routine. Requested charge be kept away from guest until summoned. Hadley got away from me and rushed in to greet her mother. Guest demanded I be replaced.

Hadley.
In her disappointment, anger, or frustration, Constance had made one simple slip. She had let her guard down long enough that her fingers inadvertently typed the name of her charge. Since the record was still in the system, Lydia assumed the error was so small the manager overseeing the assignment hadn't thought to erase the direct, named reference to the child in Constance's care.

It was enough.

Lydia knew where Allie and Hadley were. At least where they had been yesterday. She looped back. Using the ID number the hotel had assigned Allie, she accessed the hotel's room service orders and learned that a chef was assigned to Allie's five-room terraced suite. A list of specific menus for Allie's entire stay was available.

Including this morning's.

Juice, yogurt, and fruit had been served on the terrace at eight thirty local time. A lunch of swordfish, rice, and cake was scheduled for two o'clock this afternoon. And this evening the chef was preparing an eight-thirty barbecue. For four people.

A flush of heat surged through Lydia's body.

She maneuvered out of the hotel's data system. Thirteen minutes later, she had successfully chartered a flight that would take her directly to Virgin Gorda, BVI. She'd used the company and pilot before, and they guaranteed excellent service and complete confidentiality. The agent assured her the plane would be ready for takeoff when she arrived, and estimated a landing in Virgin Gorda just before midnight local time.

Your dinner party may be over by then, Allie. But you'll have one more guest to consider.

She left her communications console, went into her office, pulled a copy of
To Kill a Mockingbird
from the bottom shelf, and pressed the button hidden behind it. The back wall of her office slid open.

Lydia entered her arsenal and made her selections.