The Price of Candy (8 page)

“Oh, that’s because my car is blocking
traffic. I’m trying to protect this crime scene. I don’t want cars
up along the curb where the perp must have parked when he grabbed
her. So everyone has to detour around. Abby said something strange
when I phoned her a few minutes ago to ask if Jamie had returned
home. Before she hung up on me, she said at least we know Toby
doesn’t have her. In other words, if she hadn’t shot him, she’d
suspect him of the kidnapping.”

“I guess you don’t know, Sandy. They
identified the man Abby shot and killed last night and it wasn’t
somebody named Toby.”

“Good grief! Who was it?”

“Some man named Bruce Banks.”

The phone almost slipped from her hand.
“Impossible, Chip. Not Bruce Banks. Impossible! Someone has the
names crossed up in the Police Report. I can promise you it wasn’t
Bruce Banks who she shot. He's up in Delaware.” She hung up and
steadied herself against the car. "God, I hope he's up in
Delaware," she said aloud.

Strange and improbable. So improbable it had
to be a mistake. Too confusing for her to think about just then.
Her Miata blocked traffic in the middle of the street where she’d
stopped when she first noticed the abandoned bicycle under the
ficus hedge. Traffic was backed up to the intersection, horns were
honking, and drivers were yelling.

She called out to the drivers that the car
couldn’t be moved; they’d have to go around. They’d yell back,
“Then push the damn thing out of the way.” She also stood blocking
the sidewalk and told people to cross the street and not walk on
the side near the hedge.

Finally, a sheriff’s deputy pulled up,
flipped on his overhead emergency lights, and popped his siren for
a single loud yelp. He got out yelling, “Move your vehicle over to
the curb, lady.” He started toward her, walking between her car and
the curb. She screamed at him, “Stop, don’t walk along there.”

He ignored her and repeated, “Move your
vehicle over to the curb.”

“This is the crime scene, officer. This is
what you’re looking for. The kidnapper’s car must have stopped
right where you’re walking. Why do you think I’m standing here
yelling, waving my arms, and everyone’s giving me the finger?”

“The kidnapper’s car?”

“Didn’t Detective Triney send you over
here?”

Next, a second sheriff’s patrol unit arrived.
The uniformed driver got out. She noticed the stripes on his arm
and rushed up to him. “Thank god you’re here, Sergeant. I hope you
brought plenty of yellow tape with you.”

“You Sandra Reid?”

She nodded.

“You’re under arrest for conspiracy to commit
murder.”

For the first time in her life, Sandra Reid
was under arrest. She had ridden occasionally in the front seat of
squad cars and police cruisers in Philadelphia and in Florida,
unofficially in technical violation of departmental rules. That was
fun. This was handcuffs.

Her protests to the sergeant weren’t about
her arrest. She had yelled about Jamie’s bike back there in the
bushes where deputies were trampling over the scene of a kidnapping
to break up a stupid traffic jam. The arresting sergeant ignored
her. Eventually, she gave up, sat quietly in the backseat behind
the heavy metal grating, and wondered who was dead.

According to the arrest warrant the sergeant
had shown her, she had conspired to murder Bruce Banks, who should
be home in Delaware. Conspired meant someone else was involved and
that would be Abby. How could it happen? No one else locally had
ever heard the name of Bruce Banks.

A deputy took her to the sheriff’s office in
West County. She was searched, fingerprinted, photographed, and
asked a series of routine questions about her personal status. They
cataloged and stored her personal property including her cell phone
and her favorite piece of jewelry, a rehabilitated 1933 Mickey
Mouse wristwatch. The deputies moving about, doing their jobs in
such a police setting was all familiar to her. The cops were okay;
it was the process that was frightening. She was quiet, not to
protect her rights or anything like that, but because the procedure
was too scary for any of her usual light banter with cops. It would
have been much worse, she told herself, without Detective
Lieutenant Triney standing in the corner of the room.

The deputies booking her were aware he was
hovering, watching them, and occasionally giving their suspect his
warm easy smile. He came over after the booking and told her he had
already notified Jerry Kagan.

“I appreciate you watching out for me. But
now the crime scene where I found the bike is all trampled from
cops unblocking the traffic and arresting me. Also, I left my
laptop on the front seat of my Miata.”

“I’ll go back over there now and look
around,” he said. “We have your laptop, and the county towed your
vehicle to the county auto pound."

They put her in a holding cell, another
chilling procedure for all except a seasoned criminal. It helped to
remember she was innocent. Thankfully, Kagan was waiting for her
there.

“How did you get here so fast?” she
asked.

“In fact, I’ve been waiting here for an hour.
Detective Triney phoned me when the sheriff’s office first received
the arrest warrant from Moran.”

Jerry Kagan was still alert at age eighty
something. He’d have unquestionably closed his law office by now
except for her. Defending her brother had reenergized both him and
his reputation.

He said, “Abigail Olin is already under
arrest. However, I’m not certain of the exact charge. Maybe she
implicated you.”

“Either that or Moran saw a slight opening to
hassle me and make me sweat. Probably a little bit of both. I’ve
really screwed up. Assuming Bruce Banks is the actual victim, he’d
never have been down here if I hadn’t mentioned his name to Abby.
Now he’s dead and I know he has three kids. I know everything about
him. His wife will hate me for ruining her life. Don’t be surprised
if she shows up with a gun looking for me. Toby is still on the
loose. We still don’t know what he and Abby are up to. And Jamie’s
missing.”

“First, you must worry about yourself with a
charge of conspiracy to commit murder against you.”

“I should have never butted in. Now I’m in
deep shit.”

He nodded. “You are. I can’t argue about
that. State Attorney Moran believes he has something on you at
last. This conspiracy charge...what’s it all about?"

“In a nutshell, when I was a teenager my mom
learned I had done a little weed and stolen some of her pills. She
freaked out and called a teen hotline for advice. Bottom line, I
ended up in a corrupt juvenile rehab center with other girls,
including Abby Olin. Bruce Banks was a counselor who sexually
abused the girls and tried to abuse me. We became enemies when I
didn’t put out.”

“So both of you knew Banks and hated him and
now he’s dead. Excellent motive. Doesn’t sound too good to me.”

“He’s old news. When I innocently recalled
his name to Abby, she must have contacted him, most likely by
email. She wanted the name of a real life villain thrown in the mix
so she’d have evidence she was justified in thinking she was being
stalked.”

“So, she didn’t actually expect him or want
him to come down here,” he said. “She just needed any kind of
response that would suggest he was interested in her.”

“That’s my guess. She might never have
dreamed he’d really show up. Hate to tell you, Jerry. Moran may get
his hands on my laptop. I left it in my car.”

“If so, it’s now evidence. Anything in there
about Banks?”

“Plenty and it’s all incriminating. I’ve kept
track of Banks over the years. I’ve got personal information about
him, his family, and his job that I obtained using my firm’s
tracking facilities. I made a silent promise to the abused girls
I’d get even someday.”

“Does Abby know you’ve been tracking
him?”

She appeared contrite. “I told her when we
got reacquainted. Do you think she told Moran?”

“Absolutely. If he knew you had incriminating
entries on your laptop, he’d definitely want it. Moran may even
have had you arrested so he’d have probable cause to search your
laptop. He’d never get a warrant otherwise.”

“Is he really that clever?”

“Even a blind squirrel will occasionally
stumble over an acorn.”

“Hey, I like that. So, what happens
next?”

“A law student shouldn’t need to ask me that.
You need to brush up on the criminal process in Florida, Miss
Reid.”

“Oh, yeah. Ah...let’s see...it’s different
when you’re the one involved. First, I’ll make a court appearance
to be arraigned, and will enter a plea at that time. The state will
ask for remand and we’ll argue for release on bail.”

“Good. Custody is always the thing. Number
one for anyone arrested is to get out of custody. You can be
arrested and back on the street until your trial. But custody puts
you in coveralls behind bars. The arraignment is at four this
afternoon at the county courthouse.”

“Moran has no case against me.”

“Unfortunately, innocence is beside the
point. State attorneys usually get what they want from a judge. As
you know, the arraignment isn’t a trial. He just has to convince
the judge something’s going on. You’re facing many weeks in jail.
The judge isn’t likely to cross Moran, as he must deal with him
every day. If Moran wants you held without bail, he just might get
his wish. If he does agree to release you on bond, do you have any
money for bail?”

“You know I don’t have a dime. Brother
Raymond has a little. He signed for my tuition loans, but I make
the payments. I doubt he has any money. You’ve probably heard, at
present he’s running around in Milan with Meg Emerson, his wealthy
stockbroker girlfriend. She’s a magician when it comes to money and
they’re going into business together. They’re starting a retirement
planning firm.

“When she said going into business, she
didn’t mean hanging out her shingle in Park Beach. She’ll deal
exclusively with Fortune 500 companies. Raymond will soon have a
big bank account. I need to catch up. Here I am mid-thirties and my
only asset is my car, gorgeous as it is. Meg told me they would
hire me as counsel if I wanted to go into corporate law. I don’t
want that. I want my own office in Park Beach defending the little
people who the system considers powerless. That’s what’s going to
happen if Moran will get off my back long enough for me to pass the
bar and get my license.”

Kagan said, “I’ll sign for your bail bond if
it comes to that.”

* * * *

Two hours later, at the arraignment, she
entered a plea of not guilty and Kagan requested release on
personal recognizance. As feared, Moran objected and requested no
bail and remand of the prisoner to the custody of the sheriff.

Then Kagan spoke up unexpectedly, “Your
honor, may we know the name of the other alleged conspirator?”

The question appeared to surprise Moran and
he was flustered momentarily. “...The co-conspirator is...Abigail
Olin.”

“And where is Abigail Olin at the present
time?” Kagan asked.

“What do you mean, where is she?”

“Was she also remanded?”

Moran now realized where this was going and
looked abashed at the judge. “Your honor, that’s different. Mrs.
Olin was released on her recognizance when the charge against her
was manslaughter of a prowler....”

Kagan interrupted quickly, “Your honor, why
should my client, who may or may not have in truth conspired, be
remanded if the alleged murderer is walking around?”

The judge struck his gavel, “The prisoner is
released on personal recognizance. Next case!”

Later that same day, around six o’clock,
Sandy skipped happily down the courthouse front steps. “Getting
those handcuffs off is delicious. Thanks Jerry.”

“An imperfect freedom, I’m afraid,” Kagan
said. “Out of custody although still under arrest. Moran could
still find a reason to go back before the judge and have your bail
revoked.”

“At least I’ve some time to try to straighten
all this out. So far not a single night in jail. You’re hot stuff,
you know it? Now how do I get my car and things?”

“I checked. There’s no hold on your vehicle,
however they’re holding your cell phone and laptop for evidence.
I’ll drive you out to the sheriff’s office to get your vehicle and
other personal items. We’ll stop somewhere and buy a throwaway
cell. I know you’d be lost without a phone.”

“I’m lost without my laptop.”

They drove out to West County and after
obtaining the release of her Miata from the auto pound, she thanked
Kagan again and he left. She went in the sheriff’s office to
retrieve her personal belongings and then found Triney and thanked
him.

“Sandy you’re free. I can uncross my fingers
now. But get away from me. I’m investigating you and Abby for
murder conspiracy. I can’t talk to you without your lawyer
present.”

“I know you can’t talk about my case. Did I
ask you to talk about my case? We’re just talking about other
things. Is it hot enough for you? Will the rain hurt the rhubarb?
How ‘bout them Dolphins?”

“You’re cute. I know what you want. Okay,
here it is. After you were jailed, I went to where you found the
bike. I took my CSI buddy with me and we searched around. Found
zilch, only a couple of old papers in the gutter but nothing
fresh.”

“Was the bike still there?”

“Yes. And before you ask, yes, he dusted it.
So we can add his name to the list of persons sticking their neck
out who might be fired because of you. Only usable prints found
belonged to a child.”

“So, if Jamie ever participated in one of
those Children’s Fingerprinting for Safety drives at school, we
could prove the bike belonged to her.”