Silent Son (22 page)

Jennifer picked up another one. It was a copy of Gang Bikers.

They fanned through the lot. More of the same. Guns. Outlaws. Glorified violence.

Brownie walked over to the night table and picked up the telephone. There was no inscribed number. He hit the operator button
and a voice answered. “May I help you?”

“Yeah. Can you give me the number I’m callin’ from?”

There was a pause. “You don’t know, sir?”

Brownie took a breath. “No, ma’am. That’s why I’m asking.”

There was another pause. “I’m afraid it’s unlisted.”

Brownie silently counted to ten. “You’re not gonna give it to me?”

“Sorry, sir. I can’t—”

Brownie hung up and cut her off, then dialed 911.

“Emergency operator.”

“This is Sergeant Joe Brown, county police. What number are you painting?”

“Eight-eight-seven, six-five-four-three. What’s your problem?”

“No problem,” Brownie said. “Just a phone check. Police business.” Then he hung up and made a notation on his pad. By tomorrow
he would have every number IV Starke ever dialed.

“Sergeant Brown!” This voice was coming from outside the room. The officer they’d left downstairs to guard the perimeter rushed
in and handed Brownie a piece of paper. “Pennsylvania State Police just called! They picked up your suspect!”

Gardner clenched his fist and waved it in the air. They had Starke.

Brownie thanked the officer and turned to the prosecutors. “Out-of-state arrest. What do we want to do with it?”

Gardner’s feeling of triumph quickly faded. An out-of-state arrest meant trouble if the defendant refused to waive extradition
and voluntarily return to Maryland. If he fought the warrant it could be months before they got him back. And if Pennsylvania
set a bond on the extradition proceeding, Starke could be released before they ever touched him.

“Where is he?” Gardner asked, craning his head to see the paper.

“Eastern Pennsylvania, on the turnpike,” Brownie answered.

Hours away by car, Gardner thought. “Call the chopper, Brownie,” he said. “Maybe we can surprise him.”

“And head off an extradition problem,” Brownie cut in.

Gardner smiled and looked at Jennifer. “Feel like taking a ride?”

“Do I have a choice?”

“Sure,” the State’s Attorney said. “You can stay here and watch them open the safe…”

Jennifer grabbed his hand. “I’d rather fly.”

Brownie led the way and they hurried down the stairs. If the helicopter was free they could be out of there in minutes. And
maybe surprise Starke before he had a chance to assert his Constitutional rights.

Joel Jacobs lounged on the patio of his Parkside East penthouse. It had been a heavy week of negotiating and scrapping in
the corridors of the city courthouse, and he was tired. I le lay back on the chaise and lifted his glass of iced tea, admiring
a cloud of pigeons that was swooping low over the puffed green trees of Central Park. At that moment of peaceful reflection,
the phone rang.

“Hello?” He was off duty. No calls or interruptions expected.

“Mr. Jacobs, it’s Wendell.” He was an associate at the firm who worked around the clock. In four years there, it was doubtful
he’d ever seen the sun.

“What is it?” Joel’s voice edged into the irritated range.

“A call sir. Urgent, they said. Mr. Starke the fourth. In trouble. In Pennsylvania.”

Jacobs sat up, and shielded his eyes. The pigeons swooped into the leaf cover and disappeared. The mood was shattered. “When
did the call come in?”

“A few minutes ago, sir. I knew you didn’t want to be disturbed, so I took the call. Then I thought I’d better let you know…”

Jacobs toed around for his slippers under the chaise and stood up. “Relax, Wendell. You did the right thing.” The associate
was typical of his breed: sycophantic to a fault, and terrified of displeasing the master.

The attorney walked to the kitchen and picked up a note pad, clamping the portable phone between his chin and neck. “You got
a number, of course,” he said.

“Yes, sir. Area code 717, 323-1111. Pennsylvania State Police Barracks.”

“Okay. You wait there for my return call. We may have some strings to pull before the day is done, and I want you to stand
by…”

“Yes, sir!” Wendell sounded like he would follow Jacobs off a cliff.

The attorney clicked off, then dialed the number.

“Barrack C, State Police.” The voice was female, and very official.

“Who am I speaking with, please?” Joel’s voice was as smooth as clover honey.

“Corporal Zane.”

“Corporal, my name is Joel Jacobs. I’m an attorney, calling from New York City.” His tone was melodic, mesmerizing. As if
he were trying to woo her. “I understand you’ve got a young man in custody, is that correct?”

“Yes, sir. We’ve got several young men in the lockup.”

“Does one of them happen to be a Mr. Starke?”

There was a short pause as the corporal checked her prisoner manifest. “Uh, yes, sir. A Mr. Wellington Starke the fourth.”

“Okay. Now, can you tell me what charges he’s being held on?”

There was another pause. “Uh, it’s a fugitive warrant out of Maryland. Looks like two counts of murder, and a count of attempted
murder.”

Joel grimaced but kept quiet. “Uh, may I speak to the commanding officer, please?”

“Yes, sir. That would be Captain Henderson.”

There was a click, and a male voice answered. “Henderson.”

Jacobs repeated the same introduction he’d given the other officer. His voice was polite. Courteous. Deferential.

“Okay,” the captain replied. “What can I do for you?”

“I want you to listen carefully,” Joel said, “and I want you to take down these instructions verbatim.” The voice was still
soft, but each word carried the aura of a threat.

“Do what?” The officer did not follow.

“I’m Mr. Starke’s attorney. I’m recording this conversation so there will be no mistake later as to the instructions I’m about
to give you…” He keyed a beeper on the console to acknowledge that a recording was being made. “I suggest you write down each
word. Do you understand?”

“Uhhh…” The captain was speechless. He was a road trooper, used to pulling over drunk drivers and clearing accidents off the
interstate. He’d never heard anything like this before.

“First, I’m instructing you not to allow anyone, and I repeat anyone to question my client until I am able to be present.
Do you acknowledge what I have just said?”

“Uh-huh…” The captain still sounded dumbstruck.

“Second. My client does not, and again, I repeat, does not waive extradition to Maryland. You are forbidden to present him
with any waiver forms or even to discuss the matter with him until I arrive. Do you have that?”

“No waiver. Uh-huh. I heard you…”

“Third. You are to fax a complete set of charging documents to the following number immediately. Area code 212-445-6700. Do
you copy that?”

“Four-four-five, six-seven hundred. Yeah.”

“Area code 212.”

“Yeah, 212.”

The phone beeped as the recording continued. “Captain…”

“Yeah?”

“I expect these instructions to be obeyed.” The voice had lost its sugar coating. Its tone was ominous.

“Yeah. Whatever you say,” the captain replied. The point was made. “Uh, do you wish to speak with your client.”

“No,” Joel replied firmly. “I’ll see him when I get there. In the meantime keep him on ice.”

The captain mumbled an answer, and Jacobs hung up. Then he rapidly dialed another number.

“Let me speak to Mr. Starke,” he told the servant who answered. “Joel Jacobs calling.”

“Joel?” Wellington Starke sounded surprised.

“Problem, Wel,” Jacobs said gravely.

“IV?”

“Yes, I’m afraid.”

Starke seemed to choke on his own breath. “How bad?”

“He’s been charged with murder,” Jacobs said.

“Ohhh!” It was a father’s wail of pain.

“Take it easy!” Jacobs said calmly.

“But, but…” Starke was groping for words.

“Just tell me how far I can go.”

The blubbering stopped. “How bad is it?”

Jacobs blew a hissing sound through his lips. “We can assume it’s very bad. I just need to know how much authority I have.”

“You’re gonna take care of it?”

“Yes, if you authorize it.”

Starke went silent for a moment, then came back on the line. “No limit, Joel,” he said somberly.

“No limit?” Jacobs asked.

“Whatever it takes,” Starke replied. “Just help him…”

“Thank you,” Jacobs said. “I’ll keep you posted. Don’t do or say a thing until you hear from me.”

Jacobs hung up, walked to his bedroom, and pulled a suitcase out of his closet. There was no time to waste.

The Maryland State Police helicopter lifted off at 3:15
P.M
. with its turbine engine whining and its rotor blades thwop-thwop-thwopping
against the humid air. The craft made a lazy turn over the town, then dipped its nose and picked up speed as it raced toward
the east.

Gardner sat up front in the copilot’s seat, Brownie and Jennifer on jump seats behind. Each had on a headset so they could
communicate above the vibrating roar of the engine.

“Okay back there?” the State’s Attorney asked his colleagues.

There had been very little planning before they had called in the helicopter. No strategy session. No discussion. Gardner
had made another spur-of-the-moment decision, as he so often did. Acting on impulse, propelled by his intuition, the prosecutor
was not one for lying back and allowing events to overtake him.

“School,” the pilot said, banking right so his passengers could get a better look. Below, the geometric lines of Prentice
Academy suddenly appeared, trimmed and symmetrical as an English garden. Gardner had asked for a fly-by on the way to Pennsylvania.
He wanted to see the beeline that Brownie had described earlier. “Over there,” he told the pilot, pointing to the square block
of stone on the edge of the campus that was IV Starke’s dormitory.

The helicopter banked again and aligned with the building, passing over the thinning crowd of commencement celebrants as it
adjusted course. The ceremony was over. Many of the cars had left the parking lot, and the gathering was now down to a handful
of family groups. They passed over the quadrangle and descended to rooftop level.

Gardner glimpsed several police cars beside the dorm as they roared over the structure and crossed into the treeline.

“Keep it low,” Gardner ordered.

“Roger,” the pilot replied, easing forward on the stick so the metal skids were almost touching the leafy treetops.

“Path’s in there somewhere,” Brownie said from behind. He’d moved forward to get a better view. And Jennifer had joined him.

The vegetation was thick. Too thick to see beneath the canopy of oaks, maples, evergreens, and a blanket of vines. From above,
at least, it did not look like anything could get through.

“Bowers Corner,” the pilot reported.

Gardner had been looking down, so the gabled roof bursting out of the foliage on the horizon caught him by surprise.

The copter picked up speed and leaped skyward over the store with a sudden burst of power.

“Jeez…” Gardner exclaimed. The G-forces constricted his stomach as the aircraft climbed, but that’s not what made him cry
out. It was so close. The school where Roscoe worked. Where he and Starke played with shotguns. Where a student’s room backed
up to the woods, and the student read magazines that praised violence. So close to the woods. So close to the store. So close
to Addie and Henry.

“You get the picture,” Brownie said.

“Yeah,” Gardner replied. They were on the right track. Finally, after the false starts and miscues they were getting somewhere.
The simple robbery theory was starting to fade. Brownie and Jennifer were probably right. In some bizarre way, the missing
money, Purvis, King, Roscoe, and IV Starke were tied together. There was a pattern here, but like the obscured path in the
woods, it wasn’t yet apparent.

“Uh oh!” The pilot’s voice suddenly interrupted Gardner’s thoughts. The prosecutor looked through the windscreen into a massive
black cloud ahead. “Storm,” the pilot said, jerking the stick left, and canting the copter into a dizzying highspeed bank.
The daily four o’clock visitor had arrived early, and in minutes the valley would be inundated with rain, lightning, and high
winds.

The helicopter turned eastward, threading through several bumpy curtains of rain, raising and lowering above and below the
boiling storm cells.

“Sorry, folks, looks like we’re gonna have a rough ride ahead,” the pilot announced grimly.

Gardner silently agreed. On all counts, the man was probably right.

The helicopter landed beside the Pennsylvania police barracks at 4:30
P.M
. It had bounced and buffeted through the edges of
several storms but had come out unscathed. Gardner, Jennifer, and Brownie ducked below the rotor blades and ran for the squat
brick building. They were glad to be on solid ground.

A uniformed officer allowed them past the outer waiting area after they showed their badges and a copy of IV Starke’s arrest
warrant. They were then directed down a long green-tiled hall to Captain Henderson’s office. Gardner knocked, and a voice
told him to enter.

Gardner led his entourage into the room, and Henderson stood up. “Afternoon, Captain,” Gardner said, showing his badge. “We’re
here to see IV Starke. The guy you picked up on the Maryland warrant.” He handed a copy of the charging document across the
officer’s gray metal desk.

Henderson’s square face went serious as he took the papers. He was a prototype state trooper. He sat down and motioned the
trio into a semicircle of chairs around the desk.

Gardner could sense something was wrong. “What’s the problem?”

Henderson looked like he was trying to swallow a raw egg.

“Got a call from the man’s attorney,” the trooper said. “New York hotshot.” There was an edge of contempt to his words. In
criminal justice, prosecutors and police were on one side, defense attorneys on the other. The captain’s allegiance was obvious.
“Gave instructions not to allow anyone near his client.”