Jonathon King - A Killing Night

I watched him do a three point turn as the younger cop approached my window and said: "Mr. Freeman, step out of the car, please. We are going to have to conduct a roadside sobriety test, sir."

As he drove out and past me, Morrison did not meet my eye. He stared straight ahead and did not acknowledge me at all, as though I were something not worth his time or effort. He was leaving my detention to other, less important persons while he attended to something more pressing. He knew who I was now. But for the next twenty minutes, while I went through a small humiliation, I would shed an entire layer of doubt about his involvement in something ugly. And that, I promised, would not be a good thing for Kyle Morrison. If they had tested me a few hours later at Billy's penthouse apartment, the cops might have actually been able to hold me. I was working on my third beer and it had been no struggle at all. Billy was sipping from his crystal wineglass and his fiancee was out for the evening, "clearing her head."

On the drive back north I'd called O'Shea and told him that our tail had called in his backup to make a bogus DUI stop and then split, ending any further chance of surveillance. He would be watching now, and he was no slouch when it came to paying attention. I had figured he'd be too caught up in Marci's story to notice what was happening around him and I had been wrong. I wouldn't underestimate him again.

"Sorry I had to leave you like that, Freeman. But you know my circumstances. Brushing up against rogue cops isn't what I need right now," O'Shea said. "So I figured if I got dealt out of the cop chase, I'd make myself useful and go back and set up on the girl."

It was the smart thing to do. O'Shea had to be given credit, but even when I did it it felt like begrudging credit.

"You're smarter than you look, O'Shea. Are you good to stay on her when she leaves?"

"Fuck you, Freeman. And yeah, I'll hang with her. If you want, I'll tail her to her apartment and babysit all night."

Maybe he was just being a smart-ass, but I quickly agreed and told him I'd get back with him later. But before he could disconnect, I asked him one last question.

"You know what this is, don't you, Colin?"

"I'm not stupid, Freeman. You're figuring this cop for the abductions and ponytail is his next victim."

"No, you're not stupid," I said. "You're deductive."

"I'm not deductive," he answered. "I'm experienced, Freeman. I've seen this before, remember. But even if you're as wrong on this guy as they were on me up in Philly, I'm still willing to help you find out this way instead of sticking the guy's face into the official IAD toilet where innocence don't mean jack."

This time he was quicker on the button and the connection went dead. I might not like his attitude, but O'Shea was right. We were both hanging it out there. But I also took some peace knowing he was looking over Marci's back. He would call me if Morrison showed up. And I'd spell him in the morning.

When I called Billy it was late but he invited me over and I launched into the story of my botched plan to follow the cop on the long shot that he might lead us to something worth more than speculation. When I got to the part about the DUI trap he winced. We were on the patio with the black, colorless ocean out in front of us. He listened intently, like he always did, before offering a question or opinion.

"So you d-don't think they were in on anything t-together, this Marci girl and M-Morrison?"

"She doesn't strike me as a user," I said, shaking my head. "Or someone who'd get into the drug thing. She comes across too smart and too proud. When he raped her, he made one hell of an enemy."

"But you said she was s-scared of Morrison."

"Scared and pissed at the same time. She said she wouldn't press charges, that she knew she'd lose because he was a cop and she hadn't struggled enough."

We were quiet at the thought, looking out into a sea we could only hear and smell. The wind rustled the palm fronds and a crinkle of laughter from some balcony below found its way on the breeze up to us.

"W-What's your next move?" Billy finally said.

"Don't know."

He waited a moment.

"Liar," he said.

"OK. I'll have to talk to her again. Try to get something out of her we can use. Some detail she doesn't know she has that can trap this guy.

"It will be difficult. M-Maybe someone else should be the interviewer?"

"Richards?"

"It would m-make sense. Woman to woman."

I sipped at the beer, thought about the possibilities.

"Sherry is going to l-listen to a woman in pain, M-Max. No matter what."

I brought the bottle down.

"I'll call her tomorrow," I said.

"You can do it from here," Billy said and I could tell by his tone that he was leading me. I looked over at him and raised an eyebrow.

"S-Stay here in the guest room tonight," he said.

"No thanks. You know? You guys deserve some guest-free living."

"Diane w-went back to her place," he said.

This time I swung my legs off the chaise and faced him.

"Besides, I g-gave your bed away at the b-beach."

I'd just be wasting my time if I asked why his fiancee was sleeping away from the penthouse. He would tell me if he wanted me to know so I kept my mouth shut while he got up and went inside. When he returned he handed me a manila envelope and started to explain while I went through the contents.

"We got this two days ago, no p-postmark. It was somehow dropped on the front d-desk without anyone noticing."

The front of the envelope said simply: Manchester. The name was written in block letters with some kind of black marker.

I pulled out a sheaf of five photos. One shot was of Billy and Diane, in front of the apartment building, both dressed for work in business suits. Another was a single shot of Billy in front of the West Palm Beach County Courthouse, carrying his briefcase, heading inside. Another single shot was of Diane, exiting her car in the federal courthouse parking lot only a few blocks away. Another was of her sunbathing on the beach, one knee raised as she lay on a blanket. Her skin was moist with lotion and her straw hat was placed over her face.

The final photograph was of a woman I did not recognize. She appeared to be of medium height and build and was also in business attire and coming out of a small shaded residence built in the old style of South Florida in the 1950s.

"When you told us the other day that you had s-seen someone outside with a camera, we weren't exactly sure whether to tell you," Billy said. "Diane had n-noticed someone on the b-beach taking photos in her direction, but didn't mention it until I brought up a concern. The p-political hierarchy was m-making noise about our marriage, the race issue. I had considered that s-someone was taking pictures to put up on some Internet site or d-distribute them another way to influence those of a like mind to second-guess Diane's judgeship."

I started to say something when Billy stopped me with a raised hand.

"I was b-being paranoid," he said and then handed me a typewritten note sealed in a plastic bag. "This came with the pictures."

I held the bag by the corners, laid it smooth on my thigh and read:

GET OFF THE CRUISE WORKERS CASE OR ALL THREE OF YOU LAWYER FUCKS WILL BE GATOR FOOD

"Eloquent," I said. I glanced at the evidence tag that was stripped and dated on the corner of the bag.

"Brody come up with anything?" I said, guessing at the precise tag markings.

Brody was a former FBI forensics expert who had quit the agency when his entire government lab was smeared as incompetent by the general accounting office a few years back. He'd moved to South Florida and opened his own private lab and did uncompromising work for a variety of attorneys, investigators and the occasional freelance operator who needed his services with no questions or paperwork.