When the dead speak sc-1 Read online

  “I’ll be in town next week. If you’re available, I’ll stop by to discuss it further. I can’t talk right now.”

  “Fine.” Preston hung up, leaned back in his chair and gazed out the window for a few minutes. Turning back around, he reached under his desk. Sam heard the press of a switch. The computer started to hum, the printer beeped.

  Preston pounded the keyboard muttering unintelligible remarks. A sinister smile formed on his face. “You deliver on July nineteenth, or July twentieth will be the end of you and your career, just with the press of a button.”

  Preston straightened his tie, gave his computer one last command, and left.

  Chapter 3

  When Sam heard the office door close, she emerged from her hiding place. Checking the computer screen, she noticed that the menu was filled. Preston seemed to have purchased every on-line service available. In the bottom right-hand corner she saw the icon of a lock and key. Her curiosity piqued, she moved the mouse on the icon and clicked.

  A question on the screen asked: PASSWORD. Sam exited the program and returned to the menu. She pressed the SCREEN PRINT key and waited for the page to come off the printer. She folded up the copy and just as she was placing it in her purse, noticed a movement out of the corner of her eye.

  “Security,” the man said. “Move away from the desk, slowly.” He was tall, tuxedo-clad, and aiming a 9mm pistol at her. His eyebrows slowly formed a brown line across his forehead.

  “I just wanted to use the phone. There’s no need to point…”

  “Keep your hands up.” The unsmiling eyes and ruddy complexion were almost as threatening as the gun.

  Sam rolled her eyes toward the ceiling. This guy was taking his job way too seriously. He probably didn’t even know how to use the gun. She imagined him spending his nights as a bouncer in some dance club looking for wiry accountants to bounce off the walls. Anyone who had to spend his Saturday night playing bodyguard to Preston Hilliard led a sorry life. The thought of swiping the Nambe silver ashtray off the desk just to aggravate the hell out of this guy crossed her mind. But he had that stern look in his eyes that said, not on my watch you don’t.

  “Identification.” He rippled his fingers back and forth in a gimme gesture as he backed up to the door.

  Great. She didn’t have any on her, not even a driver’s license, which was in the glove compartment of her Jeep. The security guard put his hand on the door knob and opened it slowly, as though getting ready to call for assistance. That was when she bolted.

  Back inside the closet, Sam slid the back wall open and ran down the stairs. Her right hand retrieved a small flashlight from her purse. Pressing the button, she lit up her path of flight.

  But she wasn’t alone. She heard footsteps on the stairs behind her and suddenly remembered why she hated wearing heels. Now she was grateful that her skirt, or lack of one, allowed her room for movement.

  She ran to the same freight delivery door she had used in the past and in seconds was hit with the dewy smell of fresh air as it opened into the backyard. Seconds after exiting the door she heard her pursuer. She didn’t have to see him, she could hear him breathing, hear his footsteps. And he was a lot quicker than she gave him credit for.

  The backyard was bathed in soft moonlight. She felt damp grass under her feet. Suddenly, strong arms reached around her and a weight slammed into her as she was tackled from behind.

  She cried out as she hit the ground. He was up on his feet in a split second. Rolling over on her back, she propped herself up on one elbow and gazed up at the security guard looming over her. His eyes were glued to her legs. When she looked down, she saw her skirt within two inches of being totally obscene.

  Maybe the frail female bit might work about now. She slid her hand down her leg. “I think I sprained my ankle,” Sam whined.

  One eyebrow on her pursuer shot up. He reached out a hand to her and said, “Get up.”

  So much for the Pitiful Pearl routine. Alternate approach needed. She guessed him to be about two hundred, maybe two hundred and ten pounds. But he had broad shoulders, probably into body building. Would not be easy to handle unless she caught him off guard.

  She reached for his outstretched hand. As he started to lift her off the ground, she clamped her left hand on top of his and pulled. Her properly placed heel against his chest aided in flipping him over on his back.

  He landed with a thud and a “whoooaaa.” She didn’t wait around to see if he had broken anything. Grabbing her purse, she ran toward the front of the house by the employee parking lot, away from the main lot and front entrance.

  Once inside her Jeep, she scrunched down behind the wheel and watched the front door to the mansion. She closed her eyes briefly and tried to catch her breath. Glancing over at the passenger seat at her purse containing her camera and pictures, she said, “I hope you’re worth all this.”

  “Hey, you okay?” Frank helped Jake to his feet.

  Pressing a hand to his stomach, Jake limped along the sidewalk to the front of the house. “Getting away,” he breathed hoarsely.

  On a bench in front of the entrance sat a parking attendant. Earphones protruded from the sides of his head as his entire body be-bopped to a phantom tune.

  “Hey, buddy.” Frank tapped the valet on the shoulder. “Did you see anyone run by here in the last couple minutes?”

  “Excuse me?” The attendant pulled off the earphones. Frank repeated his question. “Sure, people have been leaving in droves.”

  “Great,” Jake said. “Just fuckin’ great.”

  “What the hell happened?” Frank asked.

  Jake leaned over to catch his breath. “I caught someone in Preston’s office, trying to access his computer.”

  Frank followed Jake around the back of the house to the basement. “Where are we going?”

  I’m just curious to see how the intruder found this entrance.”

  Frank followed his partner up the narrow staircase leading to Preston’s closet. “Damn. Someone knew his way around this place.” Once in the light of the office, Frank saw Jake’s torn sleeve and grass-stained pants. “Hell, that guy really decked you.”

  “I only wish it was a guy. Him I could have handled.” Jake walked over to the bookcase and removed two figurines. He poked a finger through an opening on the bottom right side of the back wall. By pressing a button, a small green light turned to red.

  A deep rumble started in the back of Frank’s throat. “A frail little lady did this to you?”

  Jake flipped down the back of the shelf exposing a video recorder. Attached to the ceiling above the bookcase was a surveillance camera.

  “Frail. Shiiiit. She was a goddam she-devil.”

  Frank pounded the wall and let out a ruckus laugh.

  “A woman got the best of Jake Mitchell?”

  “That woman,” Jake said, as he popped out the videotape and replaced it with a blank one, was here for more than just the purpose of using the telephone.”

  He slipped the videotape into the inside pocket of his tux. His mind flashed back to the woman, the short skirt that had revealed the longest legs he had ever seen, and the most intense blue eyes which seemed to pierce right through him.

  They returned to the foyer and followed the hallway toward the kitchen. They located Juanita, Preston’s housekeeper.

  “Mr. Hilliard?” With her slight accent, it sounded more like meester heelerd. Her black dress fit snugly around her petite frame. “He is in the living room. But I don’t think he wants you to disturb him.”

  “We’ll take our chances.”

  Juanita trailed after them. Jake pushed his way in without knocking. He saw the blackjack table and paused.

  When Frank saw the attractive, buxom dealer, his eyes glazed over. “Lordy, lordy, am I glad I’m married.” He elbowed Jake. “I AM glad I’m married, aren’t I?”

  A familiar figure turned away from the table. It was Captain Murphy. “Have a problem, detectives?”

 
Jake didn’t reply. He just let his eyes float over the faces of the guests, the councilmen, Judge Becker, some high profile attorneys.

  “You have got to be kidding.” Jake stared at Murphy. Although Jake himself had engaged in friendly poker games, the fact that Preston had introduced a strong illegal gambling bill last spring was now laughable.

  Preston grabbed Jake’s elbow and steered him back to the hallway. He turned to Juanita who was attemping a fast getaway and barked, “Stay.” Turning to Jake, he said, “I thought you were instructed to keep an eye on the guests.” Preston suddenly noticed Frank’s presence. “And where did he come from?” He ran his eyes up and down Frank’s body not taking great pains to hide the disdain on his face.

  Jake tried to refrain from going for Preston’s throat. He could feel Frank pinching his elbow. “You have a very large house, too much for one person to cover. You put me in charge of security. I hired the number of people I thought were needed.”

  “Well, a great many of the guests are gone now. You can leave.” He turned to Juanita and waved his hand as though he were shooing her away. “Go, go. Make sure those illegal aliens you hired for this event aren’t stealing me blind.” He disappeared behind the oak door, shutting it tightly behind him.

  Jake touched the videotape in his pocket and said, “What an arrogant sonafabitch. Remind me to never work for this ass again.” As he turned to leave, his cellular phone rang.

  Chapter 4

  “Beautiful job. What do you think, Frank?” Jake stepped back from the encroaching dust clouds, brushing his hands against his pants.

  “It’s about a nine on my scale,” Frank replied.

  They stepped gingerly through the debris covering two lanes under the 130th Street overpass. Frank flicked the rock dust from his short-cropped Afro. “Yep, this one’s a keeper. Department of Transportation is going to love it.”

  In front of them was a jackknifed semi, its cab wedged against the center support beam, its trailer blocking the northbound lanes of traffic. What had started out as just an accident report had turned into a homicide once the body had been discovered.

  High-beam lights had been positioned around the crash site turning darkness into day. Overhead a news helicopter circled, directing its spotlight on the semi. Jake motioned at a beat cop whose thick, curly hair snaked out from under his cap. “Rizzo, move your car around this mess and keep that reporter from getting anywhere near the scene.”

  Access to the 130th Street exit had been blocked by police barricades. Rush hour traffic had ceased hours ago and only emergency vehicles were on the road.

  The two detectives walked over to the driver of the semi. He was holding a Bulls cap in one hand while the other hand scratched his sweat-soaked tee shirt. An entire Lionel train from engine to caboose was tattooed up one arm, disappearing under his shirt.

  “Looks like you had a bad day, buddy,” Frank said.

  The driver nodded. “I had a gole dern Vette, shit ass excuse for a car, cut me off. Had to slam on my brakes.” He punctuated his disgust by spitting out a wad of tobacco.

  Their gaze followed the landslide of rock and gravel, up the concrete pillar to just below where it connected to the overpass. Enough concrete had broken away to reveal mummified remains, human, perfectly preserved.

  “After seven years in homicide, you’d think I had seen everything,” Frank said.

  “Ain’t that a damn sight?” The truck driver ran a forearm across the beads of perspiration on his face and turned to the detectives. “So… do ya think we found Hoffa?”

  Chapter 5

  Sam stood on the patio, her hands wrapped around a glass of wine. The humid, evening breeze was doing its best to dry her long, thick hair.

  It had taken a hot, fifteen-minute shower to wash what felt like a pound of make-up off and bring some life back to her natural sun-streaked brown hair. Clad in a roomy sweatshirt, her favorite jeans, and a comfy pair of moccasins, she looked up at the stars as if seeking answers to what had gone wrong tonight. At what point did she start to lose control?

  Her right hand followed the leather strap around her neck down to a small leather pouch. With a firm clasp she nestled the pouch in her right hand. It was a medicine bundle, a gift from her mother on her twenty-first birthday. It contained sage, pipestone, tobacco, and her umbilical cord and was believed to keep the wearer safe from harm.

  Taking a swallow of wine, she thought back to the security guard who found her and wondered where he was from. With any luck he wasn’t local.

  Lowering herself onto the chaise lounge, Sam picked up her cellular phone and called her client.

  “I have them,” she told him.

  “Thank god,” he said softly. “I’ll be in town soon.”

  Sam hung up feeling pleased with herself. Preston can find some other sucker to blackmail now.

  Her cellular phone rang. It was Jackie. “Hey, girlfriend. How did things go?” Jackie asked. Sam told her about the fiasco in the study. “Maybe that’s what all the commotion was about. Some security guards rushed in to talk to Preston. He escorted them out to the hallway. Did you find what you were looking for?”

  “Yes.” Sam smiled. “And my client is thrilled.”

  Jackie Delaney was perhaps the closest friend Sam had, next to her mother. Sam had to pull her share of street duty in her novice days. It was Jackie who showed her how to apply the makeup, how to dress and look the part. Jackie wasn’t just a hooker. Back then she was a classy, high-priced call girl. There were oil sheiks who had paid five thousand dollars just to have Jackie on their arm for the night.

  “How was the night for you?” Sam asked.

  “Oooooweee, baby,” Jackie squealed. “I made a little over twelve thousand dollars. Those puppies couldn’t even pee straight let alone count their cards. You sure you don’t want part of it?”

  “No, thanks. You were helping me out tonight. I’m not going to cut in on your action. What about Preston?”

  “The old fart wanted me to spend the night. His wife is out of town and he was going to make it worth my while. I just took twelve thousand dollars off of his buddies. How is he going to make it worth my while?”

  They said their goodnights promising to meet soon for lunch. Sam was glad Jackie was into a different line of work, even if it was a shade illegal. But Jackie and her connections came in handy. A friend of Jackie’s had given them both a crash course on dealing blackjack a couple years ago. Sam was able to infiltrate an illegal gambling ring that had netted over a million a week. The cops got the money and the men. Somehow the blackjack equipment was missing one table and a rack of chips.

  Talking to Jackie felt good, better than the wine. But then Sam remembered the security guard and that queasy feeling crept into her stomach again. She poured herself another glass of wine and sank back against the cushions.

  Chapter 6

  Mondays were press day for Chief Don Connelley. Reporters had been coming and going most of the day. Connelley was a walking Old Spice commercial from his tanned skin to his full head of well-sculpted gray hair which was slightly whiter at the temples. Sam sipped her tea as she watched the sideshow through the plate glass partition. The reporters jockeyed for position, trailing behind Connelley and dragging their camera crews and equipment down the carpeted hallways lined with potted ficus trees and pink-leafed caladiums.

  Connelley didn’t mind. Some people believe he plans it that way. Because on the six and ten o’clock news the citizens of Chasen Heights could see their tax dollars at work in the form of solid oak paneling and chair rails, textured wallpaper, and thick wall-to-wall carpeting. No one would dare tell him that the taxpayers were more interested in additional police and updated weapons to keep up with the gangbangers.

  Chasen Heights was mainly a blue-collar town. It hugged the southern border of Lake Michigan just fifteen miles south of Chicago. On a clear night you could see the Chicago skyline from the lake shore. Chasen Heights, whose population was just unde
r fifteen hundred in 1922, had grown close to one hundred thousand. It boasted two golf courses, three high schools, and the second largest shopping center in the state.

  Sam’s reflection glared back at her through the glass. She had her father to thank for her natural curly hair, which she kept tamed only by pulling it back in a banana clip, and her mother to thank for her high cheekbones.

  Connelley’s head swiveled toward Sam’s office. She attempted to make a quick departure for the day, pulling out her tote bag from the bottom desk drawer. A police scanner, sitting on the oak credenza behind her desk, emitted a weathergirl-type voice belonging to Lydia, the night dispatcher.

  Sam tuned out the mundane traffic accident/suspicious character/false burglar alarm calls. One day seemed to be a repeat of the previous day’s calls. But the most interesting call was from Saturday night. Fire Department crews were still chiseling the body out of the concrete pillar. It was a long, painstaking process. Sam had driven by the scene yesterday but the crew wouldn’t let anyone near who wasn’t wearing protective clothing. And, the crew had to be careful not to destroy any part of the body.

  “Sam, glad I caught you.” Chief Connelley closed the door behind him. She reluctantly sat down as he settled into a chair across from her.

  Sam smiled, her blue eyes flashed, and when she tilted her head her third earring of beads and feathers swayed slightly, brushing against her shoulder.

  “Did you hear about the body in the overpass?”

  “Not your jurisdiction, Sam. How’s your mom?”

  “Fine.” Her smile slowly faded. This was it. He waited until the end of the day to tell her about Preston. “If it’s about my report, it will be on your desk by tomorrow morning.”

  An uncomfortable silence filled the air. Connelley reached into his pocket and pulled out a picture. “Recognize anyone?”