Silent Justice Page 4

  When they arrived home, they went into the house to pick up the necessary equipment—a pair of binoculars each, along with a couple of Nikon digital cameras with zoom lenses. Jake dropped their only compact video camera into his shoulder bag with two bottles of water.

  Their destination was downtown, and Annie followed Jake in her car, then cut off, heading toward Willow Taft’s house in a nearby residential area.

  Someone as high-profile and in as much demand as Jeffrey McKinley wouldn’t be easy to get to. Jake called McKinley & Baker and was informed Mr. McKinley was in a meeting and would be unavailable the rest of the day. His helpful secretary offered to set up an appointment sometime next week. Jake declined politely. He didn’t need to visit the man anyway; he just wanted to determine his whereabouts.

  He continued toward the heart of the city. Parking was limited, and he circled the block twice before finding a spot on the side street across from his destination. He got out of his vehicle, slung the bag onto his shoulder, and crossed the street.

  McKinley & Baker was on the seventh floor of a high-rise office building, one of only a few that made up the small skyline. It wasn’t a large city, but it was growing steadily, the downtown core ever modernizing itself.

  He strolled to the back of the building and approached the entrance to the underground parking lot. Vehicle access was granted to cardholders only, but he slipped by the gate into the brightly lit modern parking facility.

  It didn’t take him long to find McKinley’s red Mercedes convertible, parked in a reserved spot on the main parking level near the exit doors leading to the lobby. He tried the lobby door. It was locked. He would either need a key or a keycard to gain access, but at least he knew McKinley was in the building.

  He left the underground area by the way he’d come, walked out to Main Street, and approached the front of the towering structure. He strode through the revolving door and into the lobby of the luxurious building, lit by an iconic chandelier and pendant lamps that adorned the high ceiling.

  A constant flow of drones crisscrossed each other’s paths across the Italian marble floor, scurrying to get their urgent business done. A few workers from the retail outlets that lined the sides of the massive lobby were on break, enjoying a snack or a cup of coffee on the hard stone benches by the tranquil fountain.

  Jake sat on one of the deluxe armchairs at one side of the foyer. He had a perfect view of the doors leading to the underground parking. He pulled out his phone and did a quick search, bringing up numerous stories about the successful lawyer. Jake was able to find a clear picture of the man, clad in an Armani suit, shaking hands with the mayor.

  More than handsome, McKinley had spectacular looks, warm, blue eyes, and a smile that could distract anyone. He often used that charm on the jury in court, and now it seemed he was using it on Willow Taft.

  Jake gave Annie a call. “I’m in the lobby of his building now,” he told her, watching a couple of suits stroll by as they carried on an intense discussion. “His car’s here, so I’ll wait awhile and watch for him to leave.”

  “I’m sitting across the street from Willow Taft’s house,” Annie said. “She was out shopping. She just got home and carried a whole load of shopping bags inside. And I don’t mean groceries. The bags looked like they were from high-end fashion stores.”

  “Probably out spending McKinley’s money,” Jake said. “With the kind of money he makes, he can easily afford to keep two women.”

  “Give me a call if he leaves. And if she goes out again, I’ll follow her. Mrs. McKinley suspects they’re having a daily rendezvous, so I don’t want her to slip away.”

  Jake hung up, yawned, and sank back into the chair. He was prepared for a long wait.

  Two hours later, Jake almost wished they hadn’t taken this case. Another phone call to Annie confirmed she hadn’t budged from her spot either, and Willow Taft was still at home.

  Then a few minutes later, the elevator doors dinged open and McKinley stepped out carrying a briefcase, heading for the parking area. Jake sat forward. Finally he would have some action. He was bored and stiff from sitting so long.

  He sprang from his seat, hurried out the front door, and got to his car as McKinley turned from the lot, heading for Main. Jake jumped in and started the Firebird, spun it around, and followed.

  He called Annie. “He’s on his way somewhere,” he told her when she answered. “I’m following him, and if he’s headed your way, you should see him in about ten minutes.”

  McKinley was headed north, Jake not far behind, keeping a car between him and the object of his attention. The guy was headed in the right direction at least.

  McKinley breezed through an orange light. Jake pulled up quickly as the car in front of him stopped. He peered through the windshield. McKinley would soon be out of sight.

  When the light turned green, Jake touched the gas and spun around the car in front of him, breaking a couple of traffic laws in the process. But McKinley was nowhere to be seen. Either he was far ahead or he had turned off somewhere.

  He called Annie. “I lost him, but we’re nearby. I know a shortcut, so I should be there in a couple of minutes. If he’s heading your way, it should be a close call.”

  The engine of the Firebird roared as Jake took a left turn and touched the gas. Several turns later, he was on the quiet street where Willow Taft lived. He saw Annie’s car. He zipped past her, pulled down the next street, and parked around the corner, safely out of sight of Willow’s house. He grabbed his shoulder bag, jumped out, and raced back around the corner.

  McKinley’s Mercedes eased down the street from the other direction. Jake slowed to a casual walk until he reached Annie’s car. He opened the passenger-side door and jumped in as McKinley pulled into Willow’s driveway across the street.

  Annie gave Jake a quick glance, a hi, and a smile, then turned her attention back to the camera. She continued to snap pictures as Jake dug the video camera from the shoulder bag and switched it on. He trained it on the Mercedes and zoomed in.

  McKinley stepped out, a cell phone in his hand. He tucked it into his pocket, then took a quick look up and down the street as he removed his jacket. He tossed it into the backseat of the car, straightened his tie, brushed back his slick hair, and strode to the front door without another glance. Jake had a perfect view from where they sat, and the video camera continued to catch the scene.

  McKinley rang the bell and stepped back, taking a vague glance around as he waited.

  And then the door opened and Jake zoomed in.

  Willow Taft stood in the doorway, dressed in a negligee, a smile on her attractive face. She reached out her arms and McKinley stepped into the foyer, then into her embrace, and she welcomed him with a passionate kiss. Willow reached over his shoulder and closed the door behind him.

  “We got him,” Annie said.

  “We sure did,” Jake said. “But it’s not hard and fast proof of infidelity and might not hold up in court. Any good lawyer, especially McKinley, would argue it’s only circumstantial. He could say he’s visiting a client.”

  “We’re not in court,” Annie said. “I’m sure it’ll be enough for Crystal McKinley.”

  Chapter 9

  Tuesday, 12:54 p.m.

  HANK PARKED his Chevy behind the precinct, grabbed his briefcase from the passenger seat, and stepped out. King’s car was in its usual spot, and Hank hoped the detective had done a little work on the case. King had come into the school building as Hank was leaving, and Hank had assigned him a few research tasks to take care of.

  He strode through the double doors and glanced around the precinct floor. King was not in sight. He was probably in the break room, one of his usual haunts. Hank went straight to his desk, put his briefcase beside his chair, then sat and pulled himself up to the desk.

  It would take forensics a while to get a complete report on the Nina White case, but he was pleased to see the preliminary report waiting for him. The ME’s report would be a wh
ile yet. Hank didn’t envy Nancy’s job of sorting this one out. He assumed she had no world-shaking evidence—otherwise she would’ve notified him immediately.

  He opened the folder and browsed through the papers. Nina White’s car, including the trunk, had been searched and its contents itemized. Nothing special there. The contents of her purse were listed, including a broken cell phone. Forensics was still trying to see what was on the phone.

  He browsed a set of photographs. There were several of the body, close-ups of the tire track, and shots of the black paint on Nina’s vehicle. He paused at the photo of Nina’s writing in her own blood on the asphalt. Adam Thor. That’s where he would start.

  He spun his chair around and wheeled over to a nearby desk. Detective Callaway, the technical whiz in residence, looked up as Hank dropped the photo onto his desk.

  “What do we have here, Hank?” Callaway asked, removing his hands from the keyboard and picking up the picture.

  “I need whatever you can find on this name,” Hank said, pointing to Nina’s message. “It’s probably not a complete name. By the way the r trails off, it looks like she wasn’t able to finish.”

  “I’ll get on it right away,” Callaway said. “I have to clean up something here. Give me five minutes.”

  Hank spun back to his desk. If the killer’s car was the one that smashed up the door of Nina’s vehicle, then they were looking for a black car with a dent on it, matching the tire track from the photo, and perhaps with some remnants of blood still on the tire. Possibly registered to someone named Adam with a last name beginning with “Thor.” There might also be a powdering of glass on the hood of the vehicle from the broken window in Nina White’s car.

  Hank looked up as an intern approached his desk. “This is from Dr. Pietek,” the intern said, holding out an evidence bag.

  Hank took the bag and held it up. He frowned. It looked like a bud from a rose—a red rose. He read the description and Nancy’s remarks on the outside of the bag. During her examination of the body of Nina White, the rose had been found in the mouth of the victim.

  He laid the bag on his desk, took out his cell phone, and snapped a close-up shot of the flower. He sat back and crossed his arms. What was the significance of the rose? Surely it meant something. The killer had tried to send a message of some kind, that much seemed obvious.

  Had the killer run over his victim, then gotten out of the car and placed the rose in her mouth? If so, the victim was probably still alive at the time and had lived long enough after to scratch the message in her own blood. Otherwise, the killer would’ve seen the message and erased it.

  As far as he knew, CSI hadn’t found any footprints at the scene or they would’ve notified him.

  Detective King came over to Hank’s desk, a coffee in one hand, a muffin in the other. He dropped into a chair and leaned back, sipping at his drink.

  Hank looked up. “Got anything?”

  King took another sip of his coffee and sat it on the edge of Hank’s desk. “I talked to all the teachers and everyone at the school who knew Nina White. They were all shocked, of course, but nobody could give me any idea who might want her dead.”

  “That’s pretty much what her husband said. She didn’t have an enemy in the world.”

  Hank waited until King devoured the last bite of his muffin and washed it down with a long slug of coffee. King wiped his hands on his jeans and took a breath.

  “I also went through the student database with the school secretary,” he said. “There’s no one enrolled there at the moment with the name of Adam, and no Adam Thor.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Yup. I went through Nina’s filing cabinet as well as her computer. She has information on all the students she counsels. Still came up dry. Nothing remotely resembling Adam Thor.”

  Hank glanced over at Callaway. The cop was leaned into his monitor. “Callaway’s looking into the name,” Hank said. “He’ll find something.” He handed King the evidence bag containing the rose. “What do you make of this?”

  King took the bag and squinted at the contents. “It’s a rose,” he said.

  “Obviously,” Hank said. “But it was found in the mouth of the victim. Any idea what it might mean?”

  King held up the bag and frowned at the flower. He shook his head slowly, then his eyes brightened. “A red rose represents love and romance. Maybe the killer was in love with the victim, she turned him down, and he wasn’t too happy about it.” He shrugged. “He might be saying, ‘If I can’t have you, nobody can.’”

  Hank thought about that. “It’s a good theory. And if it’s true, then this Adam Thor is someone she knew well. Perhaps he’d been stalking her. She obviously knew him well enough to know his name.”

  Callaway came over to Hank’s desk. He carried a printout and he slid it in front of Hank. “I went through all the vehicle registrations for variations on the name Adam Thor but found nothing within a fifty-mile radius.”

  Hank looked at the printout. “Then what’s all this?”

  “I kept looking,” Callaway said. “I searched within fifty miles for any vehicles registered in a last name beginning with ‘Thor.’ I narrowed the search down to only black vehicles and came up with two possibilities.”

  Hank ran his finger down the page. “Virginia Thorburn and James Thorbury.”

  Callaway continued, “James Thorbury lives out of town and he’s a judge. Not a likely suspect, but not impossible.”

  “And Virginia Thorburn?” Hank asked.

  “Virginia Thorburn lives north of town. Number 112 Mill Street. Owns a black 2005 Honda Accord.” Callaway paused. “And here’s the kicker. She has a twenty-three-year-old son. Are you ready? His name’s Adam Thorburn.”

  Hank sat back and folded his arms, looking at King. “Could be him. Driving his mother’s car.” Hank looked at Callaway. “Does he still live with his mother?”

  “From what I could find out, yes, he does.” Callaway pointed to the paper in Hank’s hand. “And he was a student at Richmond North High School. Dropped out seven years ago without graduating.”

  Hank sat forward and smiled grimly. “That’s gotta be him. Explains why King couldn’t find anything in the school records or Nina’s White’s files.” He looked up. “Thanks, Callaway. Good job.”

  “Need anything else, just let me know, guys. You know where to find me,” Callaway said as he turned away.

  “Looks like we have enough for a search warrant, King,” Hank said. “Let’s get everything together and talk to a judge. And we’ll bring Thorburn in for some serious questioning.”

  Chapter 10

  Tuesday, 1:27 p.m.

  WITH THE EVIDENCE Hank had accumulated, he was able to get an immediate warrant allowing a search of the house and property where Adam Thorburn lived, including the vehicle Hank suspected had been used as the murder weapon.

  Two police cruisers, along with the two detectives following in Hank’s car, made their way silently down the street and pulled in front of a beat-up house in a rundown neighborhood. A search team was close behind, ready at Hank’s signal to do a meticulous search of the property.

  The squat bungalow at 112 Mill Street was one of many in this time-worn community on the edge of town, the dwellings erected decades ago, long forgotten by progress that had torn down and rebuilt other areas of the growing city. Home to the uneducated and the unlucky, ownership in this neighborhood was cheap, the rent even cheaper, and the occupants stubbornly clung to their habitations.

  Or perhaps it was because no one wanted to buy cheap, tear down the old, and build bigger, in this undesirable community with nothing but riffraff for neighbors. The nearby steel mill, long criticized for pumping out toxic fumes, was an additional deterrent to much-needed renewal.

  As officers sprang from their vehicles and surrounded the house, Hank and King got out and approached a black 2005 Honda Accord parked in the driveway. Hank went immediately to the front of the vehicle.

  �
�Looks like the one,” he said, pointing to a scratched bumper and a smashed fender. He crouched down and examined the bumper. Amid the scratches, flecks of white paint were visible. He examined the fender and saw more flecks of white paint.

  Once CSI matched up the tire treads with the track from the murder scene and examined the tires for traces of Nina White’s blood, they’d have their proof and their man.

  Officers were now at the front and back of the house. Hank strode to the side door, King following. They drew their weapons and Hank banged on the door.

  “RHPD. Open the door,” Hank called.

  He heard a rustling and the door moved inward, scraping along the floor as it opened. A woman in her late thirties appeared in the doorway. Her mouth dropped open and she raised her hands halfway, then took a step back, an astonished look on her face.

  Hank held up the warrant in his free hand. “I have a warrant to search these premises.”

  The woman’s large eyes became larger and she lowered her hands, clasping them above the waist of her tight, short skirt, her low-cut blouse revealing an immodest amount of cleavage. Cheap costume jewelry adorned her neck and one wrist. Gaudy earrings swung under her long brown hair, all in sharp contrast to her faded and worn slippers.

  Hank moved inside and the woman stepped back, allowing him to enter the kitchen.

  “Does Adam Thorburn live here?” Hank asked, glancing around the room.

  She nodded uncertainly. “Yes … yes, but he’s not here right now.”

  “Are you Mrs. Thorburn?” King asked.

  “Yes. I’m Virginia Thorburn. Why’re you looking for Adam?”

  Hank didn’t answer. He waved an officer inside to stay with Mrs. Thorburn as the detectives went through the house, clearing each room, searching for the suspect.

  Adam Thorburn was not there.

  Hank approached Mrs. Thorburn. “Where is he, ma’am?”