Rogue justice, p.15
Rogue Justice, page 15
"And you're a useless piece of shit," she fired back. Then she spit in his eye. The big man lost it. He grabbed Katrina's wrists with his left hand pinning them to her chest. An instant later, a flattened, rigid right hand lashed out and crushed her cheekbone. She rocketed backwards, falling hard, her head striking something sharp and unmovable. Katrina felt a piercing stab at the base of her skull, but didn't hear the sickening thud. There was no sensation of pain, only the suffocating darkness that closed around her like a shroud.
The room lost color, turned to black and white.
Then... only black.
* * *
The man yanked off his hood, revealing the menacing, lantern-jawed face of the Black Stallion operative known as Iago. He pulled a penlight from his coat pocket, swept it back and forth over Katrina's face. Her mouth was slightly parted, her right ear oozed red, and her dark, green eyes were fixed wide, staring at the ceiling. Kneeling down, he gently lifted the hair away from her neck, pressed two fingers against the carotid artery.
Just as he thought, no pulse.
Shit! Shit! Shit!
Iago stood, took an unsteady step back, staring at the body in disbelief. His blood was boiling, his heart pounding. He thought back to the "evade and escape" training during his days as a Navy SEAL, how he had learned to control his breathing, slow his whole system down. It took only a moment to get there. Another deep breath and his heavy chest muscles began to relax. But nothing could change what had gone down here. He'd taken many lives before, yet the names and faces had meant nothing to him. It was kill or be killed. This was different. This woman did not deserve to die. He looked closer, a cold sweat glistening on his brow.
She's beautiful, even now. Why did she have to be so fucking stupid?
His next thought went to the man who called the shots at Black Stallion, Darnell Atwater. Atwater was defined and obsessed by perfection. He demanded the same of his men and Iago knew this pathetic effort had fallen far short of the mark. Every member of the team was expendable. He knew that, too. Damage control was the best he could do now.
He looked around. The place was a mess.
Iago moved stealthily into the kitchen, found a roll of industrial strength garbage bags under the sink, and a broom and dustpan in the small utility closet. Methodically, he went to work, sweeping the floor of broken glass and cleaning up the blood. He was especially careful to wipe down the edge of the propane stove where the woman had hit her head. Twenty minutes later, the job was done. The house looked neat as a pin. If the cops came snooping around, they would find no sign of a struggle, no incriminating evidence. He wrapped a plastic tie around the garbage bag and set it next to the door.
The question now became what to do with the body. The answer, he soon discovered, was lying on the kitchen table—a single sheet of paper with a map of Fort Worden State Park on one side, a description of the old gun batteries on the other. There were several designated running trails, one that had been highlighted in yellow.
That's it. The woman loved to run. And runners have accidents, especially in bad weather.
Iago dug through a few folders on the bookcase next to the stove and came up with a map of Port Townsend. The Fort was less than two miles away, an easy jog back to his rental vehicle. He had parked the blue sedan behind a storage building at the far end of the small complex. He then hurried up to the woman's bedroom. Inside a large walk-in closet were four wooden shelves piled high with outdoor gear. He quickly pulled together an all-weather ensemble: fleece jacket, turtle-neck sweater, underwear, long pants, and thermal socks. There were two pairs of running shoes sitting on a mat next to the back door. He grabbed the first pair.
Back in the living room, Iago carefully removed Katrina's clothes and dressed her in the running gear. He found a money clip on the counter with a few bills wrapped around a driver's license. He stuffed it into her pocket, checked his watch. It was nearly eight thirty and dark outside, unnaturally dark. He then moved to the front window, peered through the shutters. The rain continued its steady thrum and he saw no one moving about. He noticed a Volvo SUV parked on the street a stone's throw from the house. He searched around and soon found a set of car keys lying next to the phone. Stepping onto the front porch, he pressed the unlock button. There was a shrill chirp, the power lock released, and the inside light popped on.
He had the right vehicle.
Iago grabbed the garbage bag, threw it in the cargo bay, and came back for the body. He then jumped into the driver's seat and drove off, making a right turn on San Juan Avenue, another right on Admiralty. He passed Fort Worden Military Cemetery and reached the front gate of the park seconds later. According to the guide map, there was a paved road that skirted the trailhead. He turned off the headlights, drove slowly past the parade ground and old barracks, and up the narrow road. He parked the SUV next to a sign marked "Battery Tolles," tossed the plastic bag in a garbage receptacle and then slung the corpse over his shoulder.
As he trudged up the steep trail, he shifted the body from one shoulder to the other. The steady rain would wash away any footprints, and he was thankful for that much at least. But the going was tough, mostly because of the uneven terrain and gurgling darkness. Ten grueling minutes later, he looped along the edge of a bluff that plunged steeply to the rocky shore below. The distance was impossible to determine, though he guessed it to be at least a hundred feet, probably more. He gently laid Katrina's body next to a crooked wooden fence that separated the trail from the edge of the bluff. A sign affixed to one of the posts read...
Caution: Falling Can Be Deadly.
Jesus, ain't that the truth.
The authorities, he knew, would figure out soon enough that the woman's death was no accident. Then again, he might get lucky a second time. Small-town cops often bungled cases because of incompetence, inexperience, or both. Either way, he hoped to buy himself a little breathing room.
Iago took a deep breath, lifted the body, and finished the job.
It was the toughest thing he'd ever done in his life.
Chapter 25
31 March, 8:45 PM PDT
Port Angeles, Washington
Zora and Mack Bowen sat in a corner booth at the Pho New Saigon Restaurant, just east of downtown. The location wasn't exactly ideal, wedged as it was between an automotive repair shop and an adult book store, but the food was fresh, the servings generous, and the prices reasonable. Bowen said he'd been turned onto the place by a supervisor at Platypus Marine and judging from the spicy, pungent soup, he'd made a good call. For their entrees, they ordered crab sticks and fried wonton from a demure Vietnamese waitress, then quietly reviewed the terms of their agreement. Bowen made one tiny change to the language before signing the two-page document.
Later, after they'd finished eating, Zora dropped Bowen off at his car and jumped back on the road for Port Townsend. She checked the time. It was ten past ten. She reached for her phone and punched in Katrina's number, but the call immediately went to voice mail. The mysterious shaman was the final piece of this very twisted puzzle, and Zora was anxious to find out if she'd made contact with him.
For the next half hour she listened to talk radio, non-stop chatter about the so-called "rogue whales." One moron suggested mounting a full-scale operation to capture one of the creatures, "for scientific purposes."
They tried that little trick with King Kong, she mused. And it didn't work out so well.
Zora shut off the endless blabber and rode on in silence. A minute or so later, her phone rang. She didn't bother to check the number, assuming it was Katrina. "Hey, I just..."
"Zora, it's Mickey."
"Mickey!" She was surprised to hear from him and said so. "Hey, how are you?"
"Not so good." There was gravity in his voice.
Zora had a really bad feeling, and hesitated before asking, "What is it?"
"Katrina... she's dead."
Her body numb, Zora stared at the road in horror, Mickey's words hanging there like a heavy, black cloud. "No, that's not possible. I mean I—"
"It's true," he said. "I just got off the phone with the DA. A couple walking their dog on the beach out by Point Wilson found her body a few minutes ago... at the bottom of a steep cliff."
"I don't know what to say, Mickey. I was just with her, at your folks' place. Are you sure it's not some kind of terrible mistake?"
"I thought the same thing at first. But Kat was carrying her driver's license. They found her car too. It was parked near a running trail at a park north of town." Mickey paused, his voice cracking. "The sheriff thinks she went for a run, slipped in the mud, and fell. An accident."
"You're not buying it, I can tell."
"No. She would never be that careless, Zora. Never."
Zora wanted to say something, but couldn't find the words. Finally, she asked, "What can I do?"
Mickey hesitated, and said, "Mom and dad are out of town and I could really use a friend. I'm meeting the DA at the Courthouse in a few minutes. Can you be there? It's on Jefferson Street. You can't miss it."
"Of course," she said. "I was actually driving to... never mind, I'll see you shortly."
Zora clicked off, pounded her fists on the wheel, then stomped on the accelerator. She blew past everything in sight, horns blaring at her as she weaved in and out of traffic. A few miles up the road, she turned onto Highway 20, a thousand conflicting thoughts pin-balling through her head. Ever since she could remember, she'd always been able to figure things out—from her gentle way with horses, to solving thorny calculus problems, to cheating death by staring down a great white shark. But this was uncharted territory and she didn't like it, not at all. She'd just lost a dear friend. Was her mother next? And what, if anything, should she tell the DA?
Shortly before eleven o'clock, she pulled in front of the Jefferson County Courthouse, a marvelous red brick and sandstone structure built in the early 1890s. The architectural wonder stood three stories tall and covered an entire city block. Its soaring clock tower could be seen from just about anywhere in town. As she scaled the concrete steps leading to the entrance, the bell's hammer struck the hour, clanging so loud the building seemed to shift on its foundation. At that same moment, two heavy oak doors opened and a tall, distinguished man stepped out.
"I'm Scott Rosekrans, Prosecuting Attorney," he said. "Sorry we have to meet under these circumstances. Mickey told me you were coming. He just got here himself."
The DA, Zora guessed, was in his early sixties. He had a head full of soft white hair and the sort of affable face that made everyone feel at ease. She liked him right away. His handshake was firm and he spoke with calm authority. They made their way up three flights of stairs, walked down a wide hallway to a cluttered, communal work space.
Stepping inside, Rosekrans motioned toward a door in the far corner of the room. "My office is over there," he said. "Word to the wise, though, this area of the Courthouse was once the juvenile detention center. Somebody decided to keep the graffiti on the walls for old time's sake. My wife says it reminds her of something out of a gangster movie. I tend to agree."
They moved slowly into the brightly-lit office. As advertised, the whitewashed stucco walls still showed plenty of character. There was a staircase in one corner that appeared to lead to the clock tower. A large, half-moon window looked out on Port Townsend Bay. Mickey Kincaid was leaning against an antique oak desk the size of an aircraft carrier, his hands in his pockets, staring off into space. He was solid, rangy, with a photogenic face, brooding eyes, and short black hair. He wore jeans and a dark sweatshirt.
And he was African-American.
Zora had spent a little time with Mickey during her previous visit. She learned then that he'd been adopted by Al and Dorothy Kincaid when he was very young. No further explanation, or background information, was offered and Zora never asked. She embraced him now, fighting back tears. "I'm so sorry, Mickey. This is horrible."
"Yeah, I know. Thanks for coming, Zora. I really appreciate it." Fighting back his own tears, he turned to the DA. "So what's the latest from the police?"
"Chief Garcia is still investigating," Rosekrans said. "He's got both of his detectives on the case, but if your sister's death turns out to be a homicide, it's a little out of their league. As you probably know, Mickey, most of the crime around here is petty stuff."
"Meaning?" Zora asked, unsure if she was overstepping her bounds.
"Meaning, I'll bring in Seattle PD. I've done it before. We had a double homicide down in Quilcene awhile back. Drifter robbed and beat an elderly couple, then torched the place. I put in a call to the chief. He sent me two of his best detectives and a forensics team. A week later we had our man, put him away for life."
"Then you might as well make the call right now," Mickey said. "Because there's no way Kat's death is an accident."
Zora looked for some kind of tell in the DA's eyes, but he gave nothing away, saying only, "We should probably head over to the funeral home now."
"Yeah, I know," Mickey replied, sniffling. "Give me a minute to try my folks again, okay? I haven't been able to reach them yet."
The DA and Zora stepped into the outer office.
"Mickey's parents are on safari somewhere in Kenya," she said. "It might take a while."
"Yeah, he told me. That flight back is going to be horrendous, whenever it happens."
An awkward moment of silence passed between them.
Zora said, "You mentioned the funeral home. What's that all about?"
"Sheriff's deputies took the body there. We only do about twenty autopsies a year around here, so we can't justify the expense of a morgue. And you're looking at the coroner."
"Really," Zora said curiously.
Rosekrans nodded, explaining that in counties with less than forty thousand people, the Prosecuting Attorney wore both hats. He said he'd been certified in the medical aspects of death investigation by the state Coroners Association, adding, "I was a big city cop in a former life too, so that helps, which is a long-winded way of saying I'll be conducting the prelim exam."
Zora picked up on Rosekrans's acerbic response, thinking he probably missed the juice of urban crime. Prosecuting shoplifters, drunk drivers, and small-time burglars had to get a bit stale after a while. "And you'll be looking for what exactly?" she asked.
"Any signs of foul play, that kind of thing. Of course, the autopsy will give us the complete story. We contract that work out to a pathologist from Tacoma. I spoke with him a few minutes ago. Normally he would drive over in the morning, but under the circumstances, I thought he should get it done tonight. It'll take him awhile to get here, though."
"Makes sense," Zora said. "You said you were a cop?"
"Yeah, Houston PD. The brass offered me a homicide shield, but I decided to give law school a go instead, went to work for the DA there after graduation. My wife and I moved to Port Townsend about six years ago, to escape the big city and all that good stuff."
"So what's the cop in you think?" she asked.
Rosekrans considered that. "There was a lot of trauma to the body which suggests Katrina may have fallen from the top of the bluff. The trail runs past one of the old artillery batteries only a few feet from the edge and it's a helluva drop. Down below, the terrain is extreme. Sand looks like coarsely ground salt and pepper, lots of big boulders, seaweed. She was partially hidden by a pile of driftwood. The couple who called 9-1-1 said their dog went a little crazy and actually discovered the body. Otherwise, it might have taken us days to find her."
"I still can't believe it," Zora said, shaking her head.
"Yeah, it's tough. Listen, Mickey mentioned that you left Katrina's lab at, what, six or so?"
"Yeah, I met another friend for dinner. He's a fisherman from up my way. His boat's in dry dock over in Port Angeles."
"Mind if I ask the nature of your business?"
"Shop talk," Zora lied. Part of her wanted to tell this man everything. She ran through the different scenarios again and again in her mind, decided the smart thing to do now was remain silent.
Rosekrans said, "Okay, so she died sometime between six and eight-thirty when her body was found. Did she say anything about going for a jog?"
"No. She said she needed to wrap up a few things at the lab before heading home. I planned to meet her back there later and spend the night."
"It's all very strange," Rosekrans noted, stroking his chin. "Look, did you—"
He never finished the thought as Mickey appeared in the doorway. He pocketed his cell and said, "No luck. Supposedly the guide over there has a satellite phone, but he's not picking up for some reason. Jesus, I hope something hasn't happened to them, too."
Zora was thinking the same thing, but said nothing.
* * *
Rosekrans pulled his gray, four-door sedan away from the front of the Courthouse, Zora riding shotgun. Mickey sat in the back seat. The DA turned right off Jefferson and headed west. The sun had long since set and a light drizzle began to fall, seeming to capture the somber mood inside.
At the bottom of Sims Way, the vehicle was met by two police cruisers and escorted up the winding hill. At its crest, a small lawn sign on the corner read: "Kosec Funeral Home & Life Tribute Center." The nondescript, single-story structure occupied a half-acre of land in a quiet residential neighborhood. A posse of baying reporters had already arrived, establishing base camp in the parking lot. Gathering crowds of locals looked on from across the street and from every other vantage point they could find. Four deputies assigned to control the mob were doing their level best, but clearly losing the battle. What was already a chaotic scene then became worse when four news choppers swooped in from the south, the deafening thud of their engines making the misty air reverberate.
"Jesus," Mickey said. "This is nuts. How did the press find out so fast?"
"Radio scanners," Zora said matter-of-factly. She knew the drill all too well. After word had spread about her daredevil encounter with the sharks, she'd been forced into hiding by eager television producers stalking her like bloodhounds in a prison-break movie.
