Stirred (9 page)

“Lieutenant Daniels? I’m delighted you called, darling. I’ve followed many of your cases. Are you thinking of writing true crime, or more of a memoir? If you’re worried about the writing part, I know several excellent ghostwriters.”

Her voice was low, her delivery fast, pure Manhattan.

“I’m not sure anyone would be interested in reading about my exploits, Ms. Mathis. I’m calling about a different matter. Your client, Andrew Z. Thomas. Have you been in touch with him?”

I moused over the BASELINE button and clicked.

“No one has heard from Andy since Kinnakeet back in 2003.” Her tone had become frosty, defensive. “And frankly, I’m tired of defending him from police officers who insist on his guilt.”

I waited, needing more in order to hammer out a baseline. Voice stress analysis was basically a lie detector, and in order to establish if a person was lying, it needed a sample of normal speech to compare it with.

“Are you there, Lieutenant? I said I no longer answer any questions about Andy. Everyone seems anxious to accuse him of murder, but no one has made any effort to find him or clear his name.”

The program flashed ACCEPT. I hit the pause button.

“I don’t think he’s guilty,” I said quickly. It wasn’t a complete lie, because I wasn’t sure. “I’m trying to find him, and I may have a lead on his whereabouts.” Now that was a complete lie, but so was introducing myself as Lieutenant.

“You know, I’ve insisted upon Andy’s innocence since—”

“I’m sort of pressed for time, Ms. Mathis. If you could just answer a few questions for me, I’d really appreciate it. And who knows, maybe there’s a book in this after all.”

“I understand. Go ahead.”

“Do you know anything about a man named Luther Kite?”

I clicked on ANALYZE.

“Never heard of him,” she said.

The machine blinked TRUTH.

“Do you know anything about Mr. Thomas’s brother, Orson?”

“No. Andy never spoke of him.”

TRUTH.

“How about Walter Lancing?”

“I never met him, darling, but I knew he was Andy’s friend. He was one of the victims. Andy would never have hurt Walter.”

TRUTH.

“Have you ever used the screen name ALONEAGAIN?”

A short pause. Then: “No, I haven’t. What would I use a screen name for?”

TRUTH.

“How about Karen Prescott?”

“Of course I knew Karen. I’d met with her dozens of times. She was Andy’s editor for a time. And he didn’t kill her, either.”

TRUTH.

I glanced at the Wiki page in another window. “Do you know the whereabouts of Violet King?”

“Violet King? I’m sorry, but I can’t place the name.”

LIE.

I sat up a little straighter. “She was a cop who disappeared when Andy did, right after the Kinnakeet Ferry Massacre. Are you saying you don’t know where Violet King is?”

“I have no idea where she is.”

LIE.

“Ms. Mathis, I think it’s imperative that you be honest with me here. Locating Andy isn’t going to be an easy task, and I think Violet may be essential to finding him.”

“I don’t know her.”

“Yes, you do, Cynthia. I’m a cop. I’m an expert at detecting lies.”

Especially with the right software.

Cynthia sighed. “I’ve never met Violet, and have only spoken with her once.”

TRUTH.

“What did you speak with her about?” I asked.

“After Andy’s disappearance, I got a letter. Written in his handwriting. It asked me to forward all of his future royalty payments to Ms. King. I called her to ask what their relationship was, but she’d been in some sort of accident. She was in a lot of pain, couldn’t answer my questions. I followed up with a letter, got a nice note back saying she didn’t know where Andy was, and didn’t want any of his money. But she cashes the checks I send her twice a year.”

TRUTH.

“Do you still have the letters? From Andy and from Violet?”

“Probably. I never throw anything away.”

I gave her my fax number and then asked if she suspected Violet of anything.

“You mean did she force Andy to write that letter? Of course I suspected that. I represent a large number of mystery writers. But I checked the postmark on Andy’s letter. It was stamped several weeks after Violet’s tragedy.”

“What tragedy?”

“The poor girl was horribly burned and disfigured. So if you’re thinking she had Andy tied up in her basement and forced him to turn over his rights, there’s just no plausible way.”

“Do you have Violet’s contact information?”

“I do. I can fax it along with the letters. Now I have a question for you, Lieutenant.”

“Go ahead.”

“I know there were several books and a TV movie based on
that Gingerbread Man case
you were involved in, but you never told your side of the story, darling. For a small fee, I could have you partner with a ghostwriter, and I’m sure it would be a huge bestseller.”

LIE.

“Thanks for the offer, Cynthia. I’ll call you if I have more questions.”

I hung up, feeling a little bit dirty, and then scrolled through my iPhone contacts for an old friend.

Well, perhaps
friend
wasn’t the proper word. But we’d crossed paths a few times in a professional capacity, and we trusted each other as much as a cop could trust a reporter.

Make that a
former
cop and a
former
reporter. Last I heard, he was no longer with the
Chicago Record
. Fired, would be my guess. But if he still had access to their online archives, I might be able to find some Andrew Z. Thomas and Luther Kite info that wasn’t on Wikipedia.

I did have his number, listed as
Chapa
. I pressed the name, listening as it rang four times. Just as I figured I was going to be bounced to voicemail, he picked up on the fifth. I forced myself to sound upbeat.

“Hi, Alex. Jack Daniels. How’s retirement treating you?”

“Lieutenant, who told you I’m retired?”

“Word gets around. I heard about that little blow up in Oakton. Hairy.”

Chapa laughed. “Blow up? Nice choice of words, Jack. Actually, I’m just taking a break from it all down here in the Florida Keys. How ’bout you?”

“Still fighting the good fight in Chicago. I’m calling because I need a favor.”

“Again? How many times am I going to have to—”

I cut him off. “If I recall correctly, you’re the one who owes me a few.”

“Apparently age is starting to have its way with your recollections, Lieutenant.”

I frowned. “Let’s get this dance over with, Chapa. I need a log-in for the
Record’s
archive database. Lives are at stake.”

There was a pause. I could hear thunder in the background.

“Chapa? You die on me?”

“Quit with the wishful thinking, Jack. That’s a hell of a request you’re making.”

“You heard the lives at stake part, right?”

“Tell me more. Pique my reporter’s natural curiosity.”

“In a nutshell, I’ve got a psycho named Luther Kite after me. I need background on him and an author named Andrew Z. Thomas. They’ve both made headlines in the past. But if you’re making me jump through hoops, I’ll just pony up the money for an online subscription. It won’t—”

“All right, Jack, enough already. I’ll help you. You got something to write on?”

“Write on? What is it, 1965? I’ll use Notes on my iPhone.“

“Okay, cop of the future, here goes.”

I put Chapa on speakerphone and he gave me a six digit password for someone named Wormley.

“Thanks, Alex. Now we’re even.”

I moved my thumb to hang up.

“Even my ass, Jacqueline. First of all, you owe me a drink the next time we run into each other, which hopefully will be no time soon since I always seem to get shot at whenever we’re together.”

“Done.” I could buy the old hack an Old Style. “What else?”

“And not Old Style, either. There’s going to be some quality rum involved. I also need some info from you.”

“I’m flattered, but I’m seeing someone. And you aren’t my type.”

“Save that thought for a lonely night, Lieutenant. What I need is a name.”

I snapped my fingers. “Peppermint Schnapps.”

“Peppermint Schnapps? Are you drinking, too, Lieutenant?”

“That’s what my boyfriend wants to name our baby.”

“I prefer mojitos, myself, but that’s only because Gale keeps bringing pitchers over. That’s another story. I need the name of a man. He was involved in some sort of kidnapping in Chicago about a decade ago.”

“Sure thing.”

Chapa described the guy, and I accessed the CPD criminal offender database. After a bit of back and forth, I got him a name and emailed him a photo.

“Just one more thing, Jack. You’ve got two hours to access the Record’s database, and then my sense of journalistic duty will kick in and I’ll have to let them know their system has been breached. Good luck.”

“Take care, Chapa. I owe you an Old Style.”

I hung up and then logged into the
Chicago Record
, courtesy of Wormley’s password. I searched for Kite, Thomas, and Violet King. For the first half hour, I scrolled through all the same info I’d already gleaned via Wikipedia. But I did find something interesting, and possibly relevant, from the November 11, 2003 issue.

After Violet King went missing, her husband Max and her supervisor Sgt. Barry Mullins visited the home of Maxine and Rufus Kite on Ocracoke Island, searching for her. Their bodies were recovered two days later, along with numerous others, hanging from chains in the basement of the Kite residence. Also on site was an elaborate, labyrinthine basement consisting of rooms of torture, what appeared to be a homemade electric chair, and in the deepest section, ten bodies hanging from chains in the ceiling, among them Max King and Barry Mullins.

I couldn’t find any further references to Violet King. But apparently she and Thomas disappeared, and remained hidden until years later when she was burned.

If Thomas was the killer, would she have run off with him knowing he may have killed her husband and her boss? Or perhaps her finding out triggered his rage, and then his guilt caused him to pay her off?

Then again, I wouldn’t peg someone who built a homemade electric chair as capable of guilt. Thankfully, there were no descriptions of the
labyrinthine basement consisting of rooms of torture
. I didn’t even want to imagine what the playroom of a sadistic psychopath looked like. It gave me the creeps.

I logged out just as Phin walked in carrying a lovely roast beef sandwich and a plate piled high with pork rinds. I don’t think I ever loved anyone as much as I loved him at that moment.

“Whatcha doing?” he said.

I clicked on my screen saver as he crouched next to me. “Some research.” Then I managed to fit so much of the sandwich in my mouth at once that I could have successfully auditioned for porn.

“What kind of research?”

Telling him I was trying to find a link between Luther Kite and Andrew Z. Thomas would no doubt provoke disappointment in my boyfriend, but at the same time I didn’t want to lie to him. So I grunted something noncommittal as I voraciously chewed.

“Jack, I hope you’re not pursuing this Luther Kite thing.”

I made another generic grunt.

“The spa has an opening day after tomorrow. I told them about your condition and arranged to have your medical records transferred. I had to claim I was your husband in order to get permission. Which brings me to something I’ve been thinking about.”

I managed to swallow the food in my mouth, and narrowed my eyes at him. “What are you getting at?”

“Do you like the pork rinds?”

“The pork rinds are fabulous. Now what are you talking about?”

“I was thinking…”

“You were thinking…”

“It might make things easier…”

I shook my head, knowing where this was headed. “Phin, don’t…”

“For both of us…”

“Phineas Troutt…” Don’t say it. Don’t.

“If we got married.”

March 15, Sixteen Days Ago
Twenty-Two Hours After the Bus Incident

H
e has been uncooperative thus far, so Luther is stretching him on the rack, cables beginning to sing with tension, the man’s forehead popping beads of sweat like a newly waxed convertible.

Luther finally stops the pulleys from turning and steps away from the control panel.

He stands next to the gurney and stares down at the man named Steve, a tall, scrawny guy with the underlying core muscle strength of a life-long manual laborer.

“Look at me. Look at me, Steve.”

Steve’s head is immobilized, so he can only cut his eyes toward Luther, grunting against the unbearable strain.

“Are you ready to talk to me now?” Luther asks.

“Yes,” the man grunts.

“For the last time…the worst thing you’ve ever done…tell me, and I’ll know if you’re lying.”

Steve hesitates.

“Steve, I know you’re strong, but trust me…my machine will literally pull you apart.”