“Take a look around. But don’t touch anything.”
Ten minutes later, Erik Curtis walked in, a scowl stretched across his face. “When I got home I found my brother in my kitchen, eating my New York strip steak. Before I could rip him a new one, I got a call that they’ve grabbed up a suspect in one of my cases so I went back in. And now this.”
“Strip steak, eh? You don’t hate everything that’s from New York.”
“As long as I can put it over a hot flame, I’m good.” He gestured at Jasmine. “So what’s the deal?”
Vail related what happened, then motioned him to the front porch. They stepped outside into the darkness and walked ten or so feet down the brick path. The street was not well lit, the nearest house a quarter of a block away. Curtis whistled to an officer and told him and his partner to begin a canvass of the neighborhood in case anyone saw the car or the person who had been inside Jasmine’s house.
“Find anything on those three known associates?”
Curtis snorted. “And when was I gonna do that? I was stuck in the car with you all day.”
“Stuck? With me?”
“You know what I mean.” He shrugged. “I’ll get on it tomorrow.”
“Could be one of them who did this.”
Curtis nodded absentmindedly. “Hopefully someone got a license plate or make and color of the vehicle. Maybe forensics will help us out.”
“So what are we going to do with Jasmine?”
“I’ll make a call, see if I can get a car stationed here tonight. And then …”
“Yeah, and then what?”
The voice came from behind them. Vail turned. It was Jasmine.
“We’ll figure something out. We won’t leave you unprotected.”
Jasmine bit her lip and nodded, searching Vail’s face as if evaluating the veracity of her statement. “You really think it’s safe here?”
“The moment it’s not, I’ll get you out. Promise.”
Jasmine nodded acceptance, then turned and walked back into the house.
“What do you think?”
“I think someone’s screwing with her,” Curtis said. “And I think she’ll be fine here. Because if that someone wanted to hurt her, he could have.”
Vail backed away from Curtis, heading toward the house. “‘Someone’ doesn’t cut it. We need to find out who it is, if he’s working with Marcks, and if he’s serious about hurting her or just trying to send a message.”
“Got it on my list, Karen. Tomorrow we’ll have some answers.”
Vail shoved her hands into her pockets. “Let’s hope so.”
10
Roscoe Lee Marcks walked into the inmate showers, a large white tile room with industrial steel shower heads hanging from the low ceiling. It was a communal area without privacy, a place where larger men derided smaller men based on the size of their genitals, their sagging asses, or anything else they could insult—or use to their advantage. The pecking order of a federal penitentiary was clearly defined and did not offer much opportunity to better your lot in life … particularly among those who were doing life.
Marcks did not have to worry about being ridiculed or intimidated because he was often the perpetrator and never the recipient.
“Fuck you looking at?” Marcks yelled across the room.
The target of his challenge was not, in fact, looking at Marcks; his back was turned and he had to be told that Marcks was talking to him.
The man, Patrick O’Shea, rotated slowly. He was larger than Marcks, both in bone structure and muscle mass. No one had challenged him since he arrived at Potter. As a result, when O’Shea tossed his bar of soap to the floor and advanced on Marcks, all the inmates in the vicinity scattered to the periphery, wanting no part of what was about to transpire.
Marcks stood his ground, nonchalantly tilting his head to the left as O’Shea closed on him. There was nothing that could happen here other than a physical confrontation. Regardless of the reputation of these men, the instigator could not back down and neither could the one who was called out.
“You outta your fuckin’ mind? Or you juss lookin’ for a beatin’?”
Marcks did not hesitate. A quick, hard jab to the jaw landed firmly and O’Shea staggered noticeably. But the larger man recovered his balance immediately and took a long step forward, blocked a hook, and grabbed Marcks by the back of his neck. And then he pounded his right fist into Marcks’s cheek, followed by a crushing blow to his temple.
Marcks’s legs buckled and his eyes rolled back.
O’Shea grabbed Marcks by his thick charcoal gray hair and flung him like a discarded sack of potatoes across the room and into the wall. Marcks stuck his left arm out and, with a resounding thud, broke the impact.
It was nothing, however, compared to the sound his skull made when it hit the tile.
An alarm sounded. Shouts from the approaching guards:
“Break it up!”