“Do you have any forensics?”
“Just a bunch of nine-millimeter shell casings. No gun to match them to.”
“Nothing else?”
“Nothing. We went over the bar thoroughly and didn’t get so much as a partial print. We’ve canvassed, we’ve checked every hotel in a fifty-mile radius, we’ve looked at security camera footage from dozens of places and have come up empty.”
“So the bar owner, what’s his name?”
“Sammy Raft.”
“So Sammy Raft, is it? He’s pretty much our entire case?”
“Pretty much, depending on whether you can get other evidence of Street’s mother being murdered in front of a jury.”
“Let’s say I’m able to do that, which, to be honest, would be difficult. But let’s say I’m able to say that this man is accused of killing two convicted felons with long records who blew up his mother’s house and murdered her. This is a classic jury nullification case, Will. His lawyer would use the ‘sumbitch needed killing’ defense. The jury would let him go because the sumbitches he killed needed killing. And if that doesn’t seem to be working, the defense will say Sammy killed them himself. I don’t know what his motive would be, but a good defense lawyer will find one.”
“What do you want me to do, James?” Grimes said. “Tank it? We have a double murder here, a nasty one. It was an execution, pure and simple. My job is to find the killer and bring him to justice. Do you want me to just let it go?”
“Just keep grinding,” Hellerman said. “That’s your reputation. Keep grinding, and maybe eventually something will break. For now, though, I wouldn’t feel comfortable arresting him. I could take it to a grand jury and probably get an indictment just based on what the bartender told you, but if we wind up going to trial, he’s going to face cross-examination, and from what you’ve told me, I don’t think he’ll hold up. Let’s just wait and see if something else comes up.”
Grimes shook his head in frustration. He understood to a degree, but he hated it when lawyers, especially prosecutors, were being overly cautious. If they could indict Street, arrest him, and get him in jail, they’d have a lot better chance of the case breaking open.
“And if he killed that federal prosecutor in Knoxville, too?”
“That’s not our problem, is it, Will?”
“Guess not.”
The district attorney stood, indicating to Grimes he’d made his decision and the meeting was over.
“Come back when you have more,” Hellerman said. “And if you don’t get more, don’t worry about it too much. From everything I’ve heard about the Frazier and Beane clans around here, I don’t think the community lost a whole lot.”
CHAPTER 32
Two days after Ben Clancy went missing, I received a call from Marty Henley, the old friend and lawyer who had allowed me to use his family’s property in Petros to target-shoot.
“I’m hearing some bad things about you, Darren,” he said.
“Like what?”
“Like the police think you killed a couple of guys in West Virginia.”
“Don’t believe everything you hear, Marty.”
“Pretty strange coincidence, don’t you think? You call me up out of the blue and ask me if you can shoot on our land, and then a couple of weeks later these two guys get blown away. Two guys who just so happen to be suspected of bombing your mother’s house in an attempt to kill you.”
“You’ve been talking to a lot of people,” I said.
“I’ve been listening to a lot of people. Haven’t done much talking.”
“Have any of these people you’ve been listening to been wearing badges and carrying guns?”
“No, this is just shoptalk. Lawyer gossip.”
“Why are you calling me, Marty?”
“To tell you that I don’t care one way or another about what you may or may not have done.”
“I haven’t done anything.”
“Good. Just do me one favor, okay? If the worst happens, and you wind up getting arrested, please don’t mention to the police or anyone else that I gave you permission to shoot on my family’s property. Lawsuits could be filed. I could be harassed by an overzealous police officer, who might accuse me of being some kind of accomplice.”
“I’m not going to get arrested, Marty, because I didn’t do anything. But if, by some bizarre twist of fate, I do wind up being arrested, I promise your name will never be mentioned. Fair enough?”
“Fair enough, and one more thing: probably best if you don’t go back up there.”
“It’s your property.”
“Thanks, Darren. Good luck.”
I was getting used to hearing about the gossip at this point. I’d even heard from a couple of journalists who said they were contemplating writing a story about the police’s suspicions that I was involved in the West Virginia murders and perhaps the disappearance of Ben Clancy. I, of course, responded by telling them that I’d own their newspapers if they printed that kind of malicious gossip without any proof. So far they’d held off, but even if they did print a story at some point, I just figured it would be more publicity for me, and publicity, good or bad, always seemed to generate business.
I laid my phone on my desk and mused at the irony. Most lawyers who wanted publicity spent thousands on advertising. All they really had to do was kill a few people, and they’d get all the attention they could stand.
CHAPTER 33
The young woman was flawless.
She came into my office a week after we’d dispatched Ben Clancy. I stood when she walked in, although I have to admit my knees went a little weak. She was about an inch shorter than I was, and she had gleaming black hair and sapphire eyes. Her nose was petite and perfect, her jawline fine and sharp, her teeth bright white, and her lips full and pink. All of this sat above a body that could only be described as centerfold-worthy. She was a truly stunning physical specimen, a trophy in every sense of the word, but she seemed oblivious to the vibe she put out. She radiated sensuality like a cell-phone tower radiated a signal, but she wore conservative clothes and little if any makeup. She was wearing a navy-blue business suit with a knee-length skirt, a button-up blouse that was tight on her breasts, and black shoes with spiked, maybe two-inch heels.
I offered my hand, introduced myself, and invited her to sit down. She told me her name was Katherine Davis.
“I’m embarrassed to be here,” she said.
“Why is that?”
“Because I’ve been charged with a crime, and I’m anything but a criminal.”
“What’s the charge?” I said.
“Driving under the influence.”
“First offense?”
She nodded. “Yes, but I rarely drink, and I didn’t have a drop that night.”
“Drugs?” I asked.
“I guess. I actually have absolutely no memory of what happened. I woke up in jail and had no idea how I got there.”