Storm Gathering (32 page)

Prescott had answered another phone call and was nodding.

“Okay. I’ll be waiting.” Crawford hung up the phone.

Prescott scurried toward him. “They identified the prints,” he said. “They belong to Sammy Earle.”

The room hushed.

Crawford didn’t hesitate. “Okay. Call the judge; let’s get an arrest warrant and a search warrant. And contact the Dallas PD.”

“I’m feeling better . . . ,” Sammy managed, pressing his lips into the phone’s receiver, rolling each word off his heavy tongue. He was lying on his couch, where he’d managed to crawl after redrowning himself in alcohol late last night. His throat burned like a roasting shish kebab. JoAnne’s mousy voice recited the details of his revised schedule for tomorrow. “Stop talking so loud,” he barked. He listened for her usual apology, but there was nothing but silence. “You there?”

“Is there anything else you need?” Her tone was flat.

Sammy rolled his bloodshot eyes. “See you tomorrow.” He threw the phone down and groaned, reaching for the whiskey bottle that was just a finger’s length out of his reach. “Come to Papa,” he muttered. Even the slightest movement caused his stomach to lurch.

Something caught his eye out the window. The drapes were barely parted, and he thought he saw something black move against the window. Fright gripped him, and he fell off the couch, crawling to the other side of it, his pajama bottoms ripping at the seams in his haste.

There was a loud thud. Then several in rapid succession, coming from the front door.

“Sam Earle? Open up! It’s the police!”

Earle froze, his hands clutching the fibers of the carpet beneath him. Whipping his head around, he could see an officer, dressed in black, sliding himself along the outside wall, toward the back door, a rifle standing straight up against his arm.

Earle yelped, shivering as if he’d fallen into snow. Then gunfire. Tearing into his skin. He clutched his chest, his rib cage, his arms. Looking down, he expected to see himself settled into a pool of blood. Nothing.

But he could hear the jungle. The hissing of animals that lived high in trees and deep in the earth. And the language of the devil. Chattering in his ear. He squeezed his eyes shut.

A loud bang caused him to gasp, and he watched his back door slam open. Men paraded in, yelling at him to stay on the floor.

Everything in the room spun, and Sammy’s head slammed against the floor. “I’m an American soldier. . . .” He felt his arms being stretched behind him and then cold metal against his wrists.

He was yanked to his feet in a matter of seconds, and he threw up. Collective groans filled his ears, then an unfamiliar male voice. “Mr. Earle, you are under arrest for the murder of Stephen Fiscall. You have the right to remain silent. . . .”

“No, no, no, no . . .” Sammy tried other words, but nothing else would come out. Two strong arms ushered him through his front door, where he was met by a dark night. Bright, flashing police lights assaulted his eyes, and he looked away, squinting. “No . . . no . . . this is a mistake. . . .”

Running down the front porch steps, Sammy felt like he wasn’t even in control of his own feet. He turned his head to the right, trying to shield his face and eyes. Near a tree at the corner of his yard, a man stood, silhouetted by streetlights, his face darkened in places by shadows. When Sammy was whisked toward a patrol car, he could swear he saw the man smile at him.

“Watch your head,” an officer said, pushing him down and into the backseat.

Sammy looked back to where the man was standing, but he had vanished. Blinking rapidly, he tried to decide what part of all this was real.

Surely any moment he would wake up screaming like he did from all his other nightmares.

“Wake up . . . please. . . .”

At four in the morning, Aaron’s shift ended. Back at the police station, he and Jarrod continued on in silence, as they had for most of their shift. Jarrod had tried to make small talk, but Aaron’s mind was too full to have room for it.

Jarrod grabbed his things from his locker and left, giving Aaron a short, apprehensive wave. Aaron waved back.

Forty minutes later, Aaron still couldn’t leave. He’d sat at his desk, filling out the final paperwork, his mind drenched in the chaos of all that had transpired.

“Hey, Aaron.” Ian Lewis, an investigative assistant, a short man with youthful eyes and thick glasses, smiled down at him.

“It’s kind of late for you, isn’t it?”

“This bank-scam deal is killing me.” Ian sighed. “I can’t wait for them to catch this guy so I can get some sleep. Here.” Ian handed him three papers.

“What’s this?”

“That information you requested.”

“What information?”

“You wanted me to print out all the credit-card activity on a Mr. Peter Walker?”

“Oh yeah, right. The guy from Maine.” Aaron took the pages from Ian.

“That’s just a few days’ worth of purchases,” Ian said, shaking his head. “Looks like the guy travels a lot.”

Aaron scanned the papers. “Puts all his business expenses on here.” He raised an eyebrow. “Including some interesting hotel television-viewing habits.”

Ian made a face. “Anyway, sorry about the delay.”

“No problem.” Aaron put the papers on his desk and methodically went through each line. Peter Walker was a frequent traveler; his credit card was filled with purchases from airlines, hotels, and restaurants. In the past seven days, the man had traveled to Chicago, San Jose, Phoenix, and Detroit.

Then something caught his eye. A bus ticket. From Irving to Wichita. Aaron stood up. The dates matched the dates that Mr. Walker was obviously in Chicago!

Aaron circled the line and gathered his things.

Two hours into the search of Sammy Earle’s house, Crawford stood outside on the porch with his favorite flashlight.

Detective Mitchell walked out the front door. “Lieutenant, you better look at this.” He handed Crawford a crumpled white note that looked to be partially burned. “We found it at the back of one of the drawers in his bedroom.”

Crawford stepped into the light of the doorway.

Mr. Earle,

I have some information about you concerning the Taylor Franks case. Information that is neither helpful to you nor to me in my prosecution of the suspect of this case. I need to meet with you privately. Do not bring any lawyers or anybody else. This stays between you and me. Come to my house tonight between 10:30 and 11:00. 11898 Blaine Street. And whatever you do,
destroy this letter.

S. Fiscall

“Bag it,” Crawford said, and the detective nodded. Crawford smiled. “Guess you should’ve destroyed it, Mr. Earle.”

Chief Howard came up beside him. “If that’s not a motive, I don’t know what is.”

Crawford nodded, his flashlight scanning the rock bed next to the porch.

Sandy continued. “But what in the world did Fiscall have on Earle? Nothing was said to me about it. As far as I knew, the prosecutor’s office was solely focused on Mick Kline.”

Crawford shrugged. “Fiscall never said anything to me about it, and he had ample opportunity.”

“We’re going to have to get into some deep investigation on this one.”

“Whatever Fiscall had on Earle, Earle felt it was worth killing for.”

Sandy shook his head. “Sloppy murder. ’Course, Sammy was so drunk he didn’t know which end was up.”

Crawford squatted and pulled on a latex glove.

“What is it?” Sandy asked.

Carefully, Crawford reached for a smooth, oval stone, a little smaller than his hand. He held it up in the light and shone his flashlight on it.

“Whatcha got?”

Crawford turned the stone over and held it toward Sandy. “Do you see what I see?”

Sandy squinted, and then his eyes lit up. “That looks like blood.”

“With two strands of hair matted to it. Prescott! Bring me a bag!”

Sandy’s face showed nothing less than shock. “You probably just found the other half of the murder weapon.”

Crawford smiled. “That’s why you pay me the big bucks.”

“Kline! Wake up!”

Mick turned over, sat up, and grabbed at the pain stabbing through his back. His body had not gotten used to the sleeping conditions here.

“You have a visitor,” the guard said.

“What time is it?” Mick asked as the guard opened the door.

“Just after five.”

“In the morning? Is it my attorney?”

The guard didn’t answer. He led Mick down the corridor to a small conference-like room, identical to the one he’d met his brother and Bill in yesterday. As another guard opened the door, Bill Cassova stood and greeted Mick.

“What’s going on?” Mick asked, his eyes still swollen from fitful sleep.

“They arrested Sammy Earle, Mick. For Fiscall’s murder.”

“You’re kidding!”

Bill shook his head, a grin sweeping across his tired face. “Aaron said they found a note, a note that gives a motive and proves a lot more.”

“A motive? Why would Sammy Earle kill the prosecutor who thinks he didn’t do it?”

“It’s unclear right now. Aaron doesn’t know the entire content of the note, as it is being kept under tight wraps. But apparently Fiscall had some bit of information on Sammy. One can only guess that it’s damaging. Tried to pass it off as a suicide while leaving two dead dogs in the yard. Sammy was drunk out of his mind, from reports.”

Mick swept his hand over his face. “This is unbelievable.”

“And that’s not even why I’m here.”

“You have something else?”

Bill nodded eagerly. “Your brother thinks Taylor Franks might still be alive.”

“Alive?”

“Yes. On the same credit card that bought those flowers that she received is a purchase for a ticket from Irving to Wichita.”

Mick fell back into his chair, shaking his head. “What’s he going to do?”

“He wants to know if you have a credit card.”

Mick frowned. “Um . . . yeah. One. But it’s maxed out right now.”

Bill was nodding and dialing his phone at the same time.