Wake the Devil (28 page)

Three Hours to the Grand Jury

B
eth Sturgis stood across from a one-story ranch house at the end of a street, studying it. About a week’s worth of newspapers had accumulated at the front door, and the mailbox was filled to capacity. She was used to Jack coming up with unusual ideas, but flying her halfway across the country on a hunch was crazy. Then again, as she had learned, his hunches were never purely guesswork. She was still annoyed. This was a crucial time in the investigation, and she needed to be in Atlanta, not Phoenix. Pappas had called to let her know Jack had been fired. It made her blood boil.

The more she thought about the Sandman, the angrier she became. He might be an opportunist as Janet Newton said, but so was an anaconda slowly squeezing the life out of its prey. She pushed these thoughts away and returned her attention to the house.

The lawn was in what locals called a natural state, as was the backyard. Save for a few cactuses and bushes she couldn’t name, it looked like an extension of the desert. The house was modest, tan in color, and reminiscent of adobe. The roof was composed of red barrel tiles.

Beth crossed the street, checked to make sure no one was watching, and went to work on the door lock with a set of picks she’d inherited from her last partner, Leonard Cass. Dan Pappas taught her how to use them and was surprised at how quickly she picked up the technique. It took under two minutes to gain entry.

Once inside, she checked the air. Stale. Apparently, no one had opened a window for a long time. Beth moved into the kitchen and looked in the sink where several dishes had been left unwashed. The
refrigerator contained a milk carton two weeks out of date and a peach that had turned into a science experiment. From there, she checked the other rooms, trying to place herself in the frame of mind Jack so often adopted when he viewed a possible crime scene. Everything was important. Everything told a story. Even the little details.

The more she looked, the more the house began to disturb her. Some of what she was seeing made no sense. In the living room and bedroom, the dresser and shelves had once held framed photographs, all of which were now empty. The pictures had been removed and the frames tossed to the floor. Her heart rate began to speed up. Maybe Jack’s hunch wasn’t so odd after all. She could feel something was wrong but had yet to identify what that was.

A search of the garage revealed nothing. The attic was the same: hot, dusty, with no air moving. Boxes had been neatly stacked along the walls. Like the rest of the home, it contained nothing suspicious—no bodies, no bloodstains. Judging from the clothes in the closet, it looked like the owner had left in a hurry. The bathroom contained a razor and toothbrush. Her impression was that the owner had stepped out for lunch and would be back any minute, which she knew wasn’t the case.

Beth returned to the living room and sat down trying to make sense of what she’d seen. Nothing came to her. She pulled out her cellphone and looked at the message Jack had left while she was in the air, shook her head, and dialed a number. Eddie Marks answered on the second ring.

“Eddie, this is Beth Sturgis. I’m calling from Phoenix. You mind if I ask you a couple more questions?”

“Phoenix? Sounds like you’re across the street.”

“I’m sitting here looking at the desert and a bunch of cactuses.”

He laughed to himself and asked what she needed.

“I know you’re in the loan business. I’d like to run a few names by you and see if any of them ring a bell.”

“This have to do with that situation we discussed?”

“It might. I’m not completely sure myself.”

There was a pause.

“Same agreement on confidentiality?”

“Same.”

Marks sighed. “Go ahead.”

Beth read the names off her list and was surprised by his answer. She thanked him and disconnected, then called Dwayne Stafford and told him to start preparing a subpoena. When that was done, her attention shifted back to the house and why Jack had sent her.

Through the sliding glass door that led to a patio and a backyard was a three foot stucco wall. Beyond that, the desert’s broad expanse lay waiting to take back the land once men were gone.

Movement a hundred yards from where she sat caught her eye. It was just two coyotes scavenging for food. She watched them. After a while, they were joined by a third, who cautiously approached the first two and pawed the ground. In the distance, a series of purple peaks rose up like jagged fingers lit by flashes of dry lightning. Above them, the sky had assumed a crimson cast. Moments later, a fourth coyote joined the group and, like the newcomer, began digging away at the brittle landscape. Slowly, it began to dawn on her what was wrong. She stood and drew her gun.

*

Two Hours to the Grand Jury

At least two hundred people filled the chapel. Dan Pappas approached Dr. Richard Sklar and spoke with him. The dentist leaned over to his wife and whispered something in her ear, then he and Pappas left the church together.

Sunlight streaming through a large stained glass window created a rainbow on the floor as the minister addressed the congregation. The death of George Lawrence and the others at Stone Mountain was something outside their scope of reference. You could see it in their faces. Evil was an abstract concept spoken about in sermons, but they were at a loss on how to deal with it now that the serpent had entered their midst. These were men and woman of ordinary sensibilities, decent, and content to live good lives with their families. The events they saw in movies and on television were removed and unreal. Far different from the stark reality of a friend lying in his casket at the foot of the altar.

No hands. No face.

Thankfully, the service was brief. Jack barely realized it was over. He’d been preoccupied and sorting facts. People were filing past the casket speaking a word or two to Rachel Lawrence. A few feet away, dressed in a dark suit, was Todd Milner, alert and scanning the crowd for any sign of a threat. It was the same with the two marshals posted at the back of the church, and those posted by each of the four side exits.

Every case Jack had reviewed indicated they were dealing with a slight of hand artist. What happened at the safehouse and in New York were good examples. The real blow was yet to come. But how, and from where?

Rather than pay his respects, Jack left the church and drove to the crime lab. An attractive young female officer with dark hair was standing behind Nelda Latham watching her separate a number of tiny particles in a metal dish with a slender probe. Nelda introduced Marina Brady and explained why she was there.

“Marina and her partner fished the floater out of the river. I’ve been examining the clothes she brought me.”

Nelda paused and looked at Jack’s empty hands. She sighed. “Guess the honeymoon’s over.”

“I apologize. I was at a funeral and didn’t have time to stop for bagels. I’ll make it up to you.”

“That’s what they all say.”

“I was an eagle scout.”

“The last eagle scout I dated got me pregnant.”

Jack smiled. “How’s Oscar doing?” he asked, referring to her husband.

“Still the same. If anyone told me marriage was picking one person to annoy for the rest of your life, I might have given it more thought.”

“Send him my regards.”

“I will. A little bird told me you finally popped the question to Beth.”

Jack considered asking who the bird was and promptly discarded the idea. Knowing the police department, the bird was probably a flock by now. Instead, he confirmed the rumor. He’d probably read
about it in the newspaper tomorrow. He inquired if she had found anything interesting.

“There’s not much to go on. The vic wasn’t in the river long, but it did a good job and removed almost anything useful.”

“Almost?”

“Am I not the queen of forensics? I was just separating what appears to be some tobacco shreds from the cuff of his pant leg.”

A tuning fork struck in the back of Jack’s memory. Early in the case, Beth had found some grains of tobacco at Stone Mountain.

“Is there enough for a comparison?”

“Maybe. Beth’s evidence kit shattered when it hit the ground, but our Boy Scouts finally managed to find a few of the plastic bags she collected,” Nelda said, pointing at a second tray.

Jack and the officer leaned over and looked at the tray. There were three miniscule shreds present.

“You can tell if there’s a match just from those?” she asked.

“Well, they look bigger under a microscope,” Nelda said.

“Did this belong to the victim?” Jack asked, picking up a white oxford shirt from another tray.

“It did. If you’ll notice the label’s been removed, which means I can’t trace it back to the manufacturer.”

“What’s this?” Jack asked, pointing to an irregular shaped spot on the side of the shirt.

“A stain.”

Jack sniffed it. “Smells like garlic . . . vinegar, and something else.” He offered the shirt to Officer Brady and she sniffed it as well.

“Lemon.”

Jack went to the white board and wrote down all three. Returned. Picked the shirt back up and tried sniffing again. Annoyed, he shook his head, and brought it up to his tongue.

“Gross,” commented Marina Brady.

“Dill, I’m sure of it.”

“So he’s a sloppy eater,” Nelda said. “What good does that do us?”

“I’m curious. Is there enough to burn?”

Putting a sample through a gas chromatograph-mass spectrometer would provide a breakdown of the chemical components, but it would also destroy whatever was in there in the process.

Nelda examined the shirt closer, then removed a pair of scissors from a drawer under the table and cut a patch out. She ran the sample. While the spectrometer was working, Jack added “dill” to the board.

Once the analysis was complete, Nelda studied her computer screen and announced, “All right, I’m seeing sodium and chloride and what looks like . . . yogurt. We also have olive oil.”

“The sodium and chloride are salt,” Jack said.

“What’s this?” the officer asked, tapping the screen.

“Some type of lactose product. Sour cream, maybe,” Nelda said.

Everything went up on the board. They all stared at it. Jack’s cellphone rang. It was Pappas.

“I’m here at the ME’s office. Dr. Sklar doesn’t have much to report except the fillings are old and the type commonly used overseas. Any progress on your end?”

“Possibly. We’re about to compare a tobacco sample with what Beth found at Stone Mountain. I’ll call you back.”

Jack disconnected and turned to the women and asked, “Ideas? Speculation?”

Several seconds passed and no one ventured any guesses. Nelda began looking at the tobacco samples using the electron microscope.

Jack stared at the board and folded his arms across his chest. He was frustrated because the answers were there but just out of his grasp.

Nelda abruptly stopped what she was doing and raised her head. “Tzatziki sauce,” she said, pulling him out of his reverie.

They both turned to her.

“What sauce?” Jack asked.

“Tzatziki sauce. My maiden name is Skoros. We’re Greek. You use it to dip pita bread in. I should have recognized it right away.”

Jack and Marina Brady looked at each other as he felt his mouth go dry. He knew who the man in the river was. Suddenly, his head felt like it was filled with helium. He suspected, but never believed it was possible. Without warning, images began colliding in his mind. Their urgency grew in relation to the pressure building in his chest. In moments, the pain spread down his arms.

Neither Nelda Latham nor Marina Brady immediately grasped what was happening. Jack tried to speak, but the air in his lungs was gone. His eyes fell on the wall clock. The minute hand ticked forward
a notch. Twenty minutes remained until Rachel Lawrence and Todd Milner left for the grand jury.

Somewhere at the end of a distant tunnel, he heard Nelda’s voice shouting, “Call nine-one-one! He’s having a heart attack!”

Jack was conscious of both women trying to lower him to the ground. The clock ticked off another minute. His arms felt like lead weights had been attached to them. It took nearly all his strength to reach for the bottle of Ativan in his pocket. Nelda finally recognized what he was doing and helped him open it. The officer ran to the sink, filled a cup with water, and brought it back, supporting his head as he downed the pill.

Another minute ticked by, and then another.

Nelda Latham’s voice was faint, exhorting him to breathe. Jack’s eyes fluttered.

Gradually, the world around him began to alter. He was lying on a cold granite floor. The wall clock ticked off another minute. Five more passed before he was able to sit up.

“Don’t move,” Nelda said. “The ambulance will be here any moment.”

Jack shook his head. “Help me up.”

“Absolutely not. You stay where you are. Let the medics check you out first.”

“I’ll be all right. Call Dan Pappas.”

“What?”

“I know who the Sandman is, Nelda.”

Jack reached for his cellphone. Dropped it.

“Listen to me. My uncle had a heart attack. I’ve seen them before.”

“Call him,” Jack said, glancing at the clock. “We don’t have much time. I’ll be in the car. Tell Dan I need SWAT at the safehouse right now.”

“You’re insane. I’m not letting you—”

“It wasn’t a heart attack. Trust me.”

By the time she found Pappas’s number in Jack’s call log and punched it in, Jack had struggled to his feet assisted by Officer Brady. Nelda held the phone out for him.

“What the hell, buddy? Nelda said you just had a heart attack.”

“Panic attack,” Jack said, lurching toward the door. “They can look alike. Where are you?”

“On my way to the North Precinct. Listen, are you sure—”

“Positive. The floater’s Thom Courtney.”

Jack reached his car and was struggling to put the key in the door.

“Say again.”

“Thomas Courtney’s dead. He’s not the Sandman. Have you heard from Beth yet?”

“Negative. Maybe you should let the docs check you out like Nelda says. You’re not making any sense.”