Framed: A Psychological Thriller (Boston's Crimes of Passion Book 2) (19 page)

Despite the early morning hour, the temperature had already risen above ninety. Along with the humidity, it promised to be a scorcher. The hot July sun would show no mercy. Sweat prickled Kincaid’s forehead.

Wiping it off with the sleeve of his shirt, he stared down the street. He stood on the sidewalk and watched cars slow at the stoplight.

A broken streetlight hung over the driveway to a KFC. Palm trees and live oaks lined the roadway. A boarded-up abandoned house sat at the intersection, looking as if it hadn’t been painted for decades.

This was where it had happened, thirteen years ago. Chicora-Cherokee.

Set in the middle of North Charleston, the community was notorious for drugs and shootings back then. Kincaid wasn’t certain its status had changed. He had been warned not to do the reconstruction at night.

This reconstruction was of the utmost importance to his investigation.

With scant details on the murder, he needed to answer the questions raised by the evidence presented at Taylor’s trial. Where were the shooters when the shots were fired? How many shots were fired? What could the shooters see?

Kincaid had arrived in Charleston late last evening, irritated that it was two weeks later than his original scheduled visit. The damn shooting had screwed up more than his timetable.

His recovery from the gunshot had gone well enough. He didn’t have to be told he had been lucky. Another inch and…well, he wouldn’t be here.

The investigation into the shooting was still “ongoing.” The moment he had been moved out of recovery, Kincaid had been bombarded by a task force that had quickly assembled. Unfortunately, he had little to offer.

He had left Cruz behind to follow leads in Boston. Detective Brophy had become her unlikely ally. The detective had become a madman when the Feds came in to head the investigation.

The murder lit up Boston. The city lived on the edge, eager for any information on the case and Ashcroft family. The news was filled with every detail any reporter could dig up.

No stone had been left unturned. Right in the center of the swirling storm: Riley Ashcroft. Despite her cousin, Freddy, lying in a drug-induced coma, despite the clear implications of her uncle, Walter, Riley had taken the blunt end of the negative publicity, being portrayed as a woman spurned.

He understood better than most the way the press worked. Empathy lay with Olivia Ashcroft Edmunds. Young and beautiful. Devoted wife and mother. Dead.

The public needed someone to blame. Without an arrest, Riley served that purpose.

The question no one else knew was the reason a sniper shot at the women. Speculation ran rampant; a crippling fear swept the city. Were the Ashcroft women targeted or random victims? Was it a terrorist? Was the city in danger of another attack?

Out of the chaos, he had emerged a hero. Taking a bullet saving Riley, Fox27 had portrayed his actions as brave and selfless.

The press corps descended on him. He had given one interview after another, but in each he pled he had been at the right place at the right time.

The FBI had asked him to keep quiet about any details he knew.

Kincaid had done as requested so far. His focus…his purpose lay with uncovering the truth. In time, he would expose the Ashcrofts for who they were.

Olivia Ashcroft Edmunds had been laid to rest beside her grandparents. The whole city seemed to have come to a complete stop, mourning the loss of the granddaughter of Witt Ashcroft.

Though he had attended the service, Kincaid watched from afar. He was certain that the Ashcrofts were mindful of his presence.

Taken by completely off guard, Walter Ashcroft had been arrested by the FBI on fraud and money laundering charges the day after his daughter’s funeral. From the report he received from Cruz, Ellis Dean would be the next arrested in connection with the federal case.

The news had stunned the city.

More stunning to Kincaid had been Cruz’s assertion that there was a possible connection to the murders and Ellis Dean. Now, Ellis Dean was a wanted man.

If he was in Boston, he would have been hot on the trail of the story. He wasn’t. Instead, he was in Charleston, impatient to begin his investigation in the murder of Officer Greg Steiger.

Night after night, he studied the case against Harrison Taylor until he knew every detail. He had searched endlessly for some connection between Taylor’s case and the recent murders.

There were too many coincidences…and he didn’t believe in coincidences. His instincts cried:
discover who framed Taylor and solve the murders
.

Yes, he had come to the conclusion that Taylor had been framed. It was the only thing that made sense. Nothing else did.

The source of his frustration—Riley Ashcroft. He hadn’t heard a word from her since she had left his bedside in the hospital. The woman made him so damn angry.
Double-damn.

In Boston, Kincaid had met with Clayton Edmunds briefly. Their original meeting had been postponed until a respectable time after his daughter-in-law’s funeral. But Kincaid had given him all the time he was going to give him. Whether Edmunds wanted to talk or not, Kincaid had questions for the man. He was tired of getting the runaround.

This was not going to be easy.

Thirteen years ago, a cop had been killed. No one attached to the case was going to show sympathy to a convicted cop killer.

Though, the public perception had softened. With reports of police brutality the last few years toward blacks, the possibility that Taylor was innocent was not outside the realm of reason.

The reward offered by Taylor’s grandmother had presented her grandson in a different light. From his research, the story had gone national and was picked up by numerous outlets. Feelers had gone out from
Dateline
, 20/20, and
48 Hours
.

But the networks needed for Taylor to be innocent to stir up controversy. Kincaid needed the truth.

Kincaid and his cameraman, Avery McNeil, were staying at the Harbor View Inn in downtown Charleston. McNeil, originally from northern New York, had worked beside Kincaid since the Boston Marathon bombing and was the closest thing Kincaid had to a best friend the last few years.

Last night after dinner, the two men had time to explore the downtown area. Charleston’s charm had not been overstated. With each step, the present seemed to merge with the past.

Cobblestone streets. Grand, majestic mansions along the Battery with their lush, colorful gardens. Lovely views over the harbor, where Fort Sumter lay and the first shots of the Civil War had been fired.

McNeil, the usual voice of reason, talked about the plans for the next day. Kincaid listened, but for the life of him, as he looked out over the water, he couldn’t get his mind off Riley. 
Where the hell are you? Why haven’t I heard from you?

Despite the comforts of the hotel, he hadn’t slept. Too much on his mind.

“Mr. Kincaid, it was down the street a bit. Past Crowder’s Liquors.”

Kincaid walked over to the tall, lanky black man, dressed casually in a polo shirt and jeans. Sony Pritchard was the private investigator he had hired to help him while he was in South Carolina.

He had chosen Sony carefully. Riley had given him a recommendation. But what had sealed the deal for Kincaid in choosing Sony—Sony Pritchard had been Harrison Taylor’s best friend in high school and claimed to have known Taylor better than anyone at the time. Sony had made it clear there was no way in 
hell 
Taylor killed that cop.

Easy to say, harder to prove.

Over the last few weeks, Kincaid had talked on and off with the private eye, but had only met him this morning over breakfast at Moe’s Crosstown Tavern. While he ate his crab cake benedict with a side of grits, Sony talked of his friendship with the convicted criminal.

“Harrison and I played football together at Sewee High. He was the running back. Me, wide receiver. Won state two years straight and Harrison was the best. None better. Had a full ride to Clemson before…before he was arrested.”

“Friend or not, what exactly leads you to have so much faith that Taylor is innocent? He wouldn’t be the first to fall victim to the limelight. Partying. Drugs.”

“He didn’t.”

“I’ve done my research. The evidence against him is damning. What do you have that can prove your friend’s innocence?”

“Harrison didn’t do drugs of any sort. Kept me out of trouble, too. He idolized Jack Ashcroft. Wouldn’t do anything that Jack would have frowned upon. Drinking and drugs was high on that list. Harrison wasn’t like the rest of us. I don’t think he even had tried a beer.

“That’s what makes what happened even stranger. The night that all this went down, the kids we hung out with were all going out. Harrison passed. He was going to Clemson the next morning. The coach wanted Harrison to come to the spring game to meet the team.

“The last I talked with Harrison was about six o’clock. He was down at Jack’s office. Jack was meeting with a client and then the two of them were going out to eat dinner. I never talked with him afterwards. I assumed he had gone home and went to bed.

“I got a frantic call about ten from Mr. Ashcroft. Harrison had disappeared from his office. He wanted to know if I knew where he was.” Sony shook his head. “Hadn’t a clue. Called around. No luck. Then, we got news that Harrison had been shot down in Chicora-Cherokee. Fuckin’ unbelievable.”

Kincaid made some notes. “Why would Harrison have gone there?”

“Only thing you go there for is drugs,” Sony stated firmly. “Crack. Harrison would have never done that.”

“There had to be a reason,” Kincaid countered. “From the evidence, he must have drove himself down there.”

“I’m telling you—ain’t no way. Same thing I told Mr. Ashcroft when I got to the hospital. He didn’t believe me neither. Slammed me up against the wall and demanded to know what the two of us had been up to.”

“He thought you were a bad influence?”

“Nah.” Sony shrugged. “Just when you saw one of us, you saw the other.”

“And you have no idea why Harrison was down there?”

“No. Neither did Harrison. Said the last thing he remembered was sitting, waiting for Jack.”

Kincaid grimaced. Nothing new.

Sony had explained that for years he had nothing to do with Harrison. He went on with his life. Joined the military and eventually came back to Charleston.

“It wasn’t until Riley called me out of the blue a couple of years ago that I reconnected with my old friend. Something wrong happened here thirteen years ago, Mr. Kincaid. I’ve been trying to prove it, but there are some walls I can’t break down.

“I’m hoping working with you, we can.”

Riley…Riley had called Sony years ago? Could it be she was still in touch with Harrison Taylor?

“Josh…Josh.”

Kincaid snapped out of his thought and looked back at McNeil. His cameraman lowered his camera and pointed to a cruiser pulling up beside their van.

Sony stood with a broad, shit-eating grin plastered on his face.

“What did you do?” Kincaid growled under his breath.

“Told you we need answers. Rankin can help.” Sony’s smile broadened. “Just needed a little encouragement.”

Kincaid wondered what message Sony had left for Rankin to appear himself. He had tried numerous times to talk with the officer and had gotten nowhere.

Slamming the door of his cruiser, Tanner Rankin stomped toward the little group. He was shorter than Kincaid expected, but walked with the confidence that serving his community for years gave him.

Studying the man as he neared, Kincaid concluded Rankin to be a noble sort. The kind that deemed being a cop an honor. Idealistic. Believing he could make a difference in the world.

From all Kincaid had gathered on the man, Rankin was intensely loyal to his partner, but Kincaid imagined he was also driven by guilt. Guilt that his partner had died and in some way, his fault he hadn’t stopped it from happening…

Rankin was also hell-fired determined that the culprit responsible for the crime would pay.

“What the hell are you selling to these bleeding heart liberals, Sony Pritchard?” Rankin demanded with the wrath of righteous anger. “If you think for one minute I’m going to allow you to free that cop killer, you’re fucking crazy.”

Maneuvering in front of Rankin, Kincaid gestured with his hands to calm down. “Not doing anything illegal here, Officer. We are going over the police report to reconstruct the scene…”

Rankin ignored Kincaid and pushed him aside. “Sony Pritchard, I came for you! You low-life dog! I dare you to try to run those fuckin’ lies!”

“Just repeating what I heard,” Sony taunted the police officer. “Can’t stop me from speaking my mind—”

“Not when it’s fuckin’ lies!”

“Take it you’re taking offense to the rumors. Tellin’ me that you and Steiger weren’t hookin’ up?”

“Damn right!”

“Then the thought that you got into an argument the night he got shot… He got wind that you wanted him to break up with his wife, come out of the closet and move to Chicago.”