Web of Justice (11 page)

No doubt he knew he was being watched, and his scowl turned into a sneer. Then the chains rattled as he yanked wildly at them.

Hank spoke calmly to the enraged man as he slid a chair over and sat, resting his arms on the table. “Relax, Wilde.” Hank pointed to the cuffs. “And get used to those bracelets. You’re gonna be wearing them for a long time.”

Wilde emitted a low growl, gave one final ferocious tug, and then sat still, grinding his bared teeth in anger.

King leaned against the wall and pointed at the suspect’s bandaged hand. “What happened to your hand?”

Wilde looked up for a brief moment and shot King a black look.

“I heard a girl got the best of you,” King said and laughed.

The prisoner turned his head away and didn’t answer.

King leaned over the desk. “That’s nothing compared to what you have coming,” he said, then glared at Wilde a few moments before leaning back again and crossing his arms.

Hank allowed a brief silence to pass before speaking. “Wilde, we have you for one count of murder, one of attempted murder, and kidnapping as well.” Hank tapped his fingers on the table. “What I want to know is, why?”

Wilde looked up and narrowed his eyes at Hank. “I didn’t kill no one.”

Hank leaned in. “You killed Olivia Bragg. We found all the evidence we need at your property. You shot a police officer. That’s serious stuff. And then you kidnapped Lindy Metz. We have two witnesses.”

“If you cooperate and give us the details,” King said, “this’ll go a lot easier for you.”

Wilde scowled again. “Maybe I kidnapped a girl, but I didn’t kill no one. You couldn’t have seen me ’cause I weren’t there.”

“Your prints were all over the shed,” Hank said.

“Course they were. I own the place. I haven’t used it for a while is all.” He shrugged. “Somebody else was using it.”

King laughed. “You think a jury is gonna believe that?”

“It’s true.” Wilde paused. “All I did was try to kidnap a girl. No harm done. I let her go again.”

King leaned in and raised his voice. “We know you killed your mother as well.”

Wilde looked confused. “My mother? I was the one who found her. Why would I kill her?” His voice softened and shook as he spoke. “She was all I had. I … I loved her.”

Hank sighed, then spoke in a gentle voice. “Tell me why you kidnapped Lindy Metz.”

“Never said I did.”

Hank chuckled. “I’m pretty sure you did. About two minutes ago.”

Wilde narrowed his eyes, then dropped his head and remained still a moment. Then he said quietly, “I … I dunno why.”

“I know why,” Hank said.

The suspect’s head shot up and he frowned.

“Because she looks like your mother,” Hank continued. “And so did Olivia Bragg. You killed Mrs. Bragg, and you tried to kill Lindy Metz because you hated your mother so much.”

Wilde shook his head, pain showing in his eyes. “No,” he said. “It ain’t true.”

“Who else did you murder?” King asked. “Were there others?”

“No. No others.”

“Are you trying to tell me you only killed two women?”

Wilde stared at King and blinked rapidly, then looked at Hank. “I … uh …”

The suspect was getting confused. That was good. Hank tried a different tactic. “We have a video of you at Phil’s restaurant. You stalked Olivia Bragg, then followed her and kidnapped her. We have witnesses, and your DNA was on her body.”

The prisoner shook his head.

“You’re not helping yourself,” King said. “You’re going away for the rest of your life if you don’t confess. Do you know what they do to guys like you in prison?” He laughed. “You’re gonna be somebody’s lover and you’re gonna like it.”

Wilde began to shake, almost imperceptibly at first, then his breath became erratic, and the chains rattled as his body quivered uncontrollably. He looked at Hank, pleading in his eyes.

“It’s true,” Hank said with a shrug. “But if you confess, it might not happen. You’re still going to prison, but I can ensure things are a little easier for you in there.”

The suspect swallowed hard, then closed his eyes and breathed slowly in an attempt to calm himself down. A curious look of peace filled his face, and finally he opened his eyes and spoke in a calm voice. “Call my brother. I want a lawyer.”

“A lawyer won’t help you,” King said.

“My brother’ll know what to do.”

Hank sighed, glared at Wilde a moment, then stood and followed King from the room, closing the door behind them.

Jake stood and spoke as they entered. “Looks like you’re not gonna get anything else from him.”

“We have enough,” King said. “We only wanted a confession. It would’ve saved the taxpayers a lot of money prosecuting this piece of scum.”

“So now what’ll happen to him?” Annie asked as they left the room and headed for the main precinct floor.

Hank dropped into his chair. “I’ll need your statements before long. In the meantime, Wilde will be taken to East Detention Center for the night. Likely be arraigned in the morning, then go to trial in a few weeks or months.” He shrugged. “Hopefully, we can eventually get a confession from him. Maybe make a deal, but either way, he’s going away for the rest of his life.”

Jake narrowed his eyes. “At least he’ll still have a life. That’s more than I can say for any of his victims.”

“He won’t have much of a life,” Hank said flatly.

King forced out a short laugh, almost like a low growl. “I still think I should’ve shot him in the back when I had a chance.”

Annie spoke. “How’s that officer doing? The one Wilde shot?”

“He’ll be fine,” Hank said. “His vest saved him, and he’s been given an extended leave.” He turned to King. “You can call Carter Wilde. He’ll probably get a lawyer for this guy and then we can get rid of him for now. In the meantime, I’ll give Lindy Metz and her parents a visit. They’ll be happy to hear the news.”

“We’ll talk to Edgar Bragg,” Annie said. “It won’t bring his wife back, but it’ll give him a bit of closure.”

Hank nodded. He knew there was no such thing as closure, only a small measure of satisfaction that justice had been done. But the pain of losing a loved one by a senseless murder would go on forever. And that was what kept him doing his job, day after day.

As the Lincolns turned to leave, he said goodbye and promised to see them soon, then pulled his chair into his desk. Now he was faced with the massive job of building the case against Wilde. It was pretty cut and dried, but it still meant mounds of paperwork had to be done before he could turn it over to the crown attorney for prosecution.

Chapter 18

Wednesday, 4:28 p.m.

IZZY WILDE WASN’T the least bit happy with the way things had turned out. From his point of view, his troubles all went back to Lindy Metz. She’d been a tiger, that was for sure, and he wished he’d had a gun with him. Even a knife. Then the meddling witness would’ve been dead, the girl would’ve gotten what she deserved, and he wouldn’t be in this hellhole.

He took another glance around the holding cell and convinced himself it could be worse. At least it wasn’t filled with the kinds of people he’d heard about. There was only one other guy occupying the twenty-by-twenty room. Some bedraggled idiot who appeared to be drunk was sleeping it off in the far corner.

But once he got to wherever they planned to take him, it might be a whole different matter, and he quaked in fear. Was it true what the nasty cop had told him? Was he destined to be some fat greasy convict’s lover? He’d sooner die, and he vowed never to succumb to such a vile practice. He’d slit his own throat before he’d allow himself to suffer that kind of humiliation.

He adjusted his position on the uncomfortable metal bench. From where he sat, he had a full view of the doorway leading into the area the holding cells occupied. He was waiting. Waiting and hoping his brother had summoned a lawyer who could at least tell him what fate awaited him. Maybe get him out of this dump. But he wasn’t sure if Carter would even come through for him. His brother had always been unpredictable that way.

He should’ve planned things better, but he’d been so eager—.

Izzy lay back against the solid concrete wall and closed his eyes. He felt his mother’s hand on his brow, telling him to relax and everything would be all right. Her tone was soothing, barely a whisper, a whisper only he could hear.

“Relax,” she said in an angelic voice. The sound filled him with peace—a calming peace.

He looked up into her warm, dark brown eyes. She always made him feel better. That morning he’d skinned his knee, but she’d kissed the pain away. And when Carter was mean to him, she always took his side, and it made him feel special.

What he loved most about her was that she was always there. Even when his father had left them when Izzy was a few months old, his mother had been closer to him than Carter. Where was his brother now? He’d gone fishing with his friends, but Izzy didn’t care. Mother was here. His mother. All his. Forever.

He breathed quietly, comfortable in the pure and wholesome tranquility his mother’s presence always brought. She was all he needed.

Metal slammed against metal. Something screeched and Izzy sprang up, startled. A uniformed officer walked toward him, leering at him, while another one stood behind, holding a baton.

Where was his mother? She’d left him.

Again.

“Stand back from the doors.”

Izzy slunk back and dropped down onto the rigid cot.

The door clanged and rattled. Metal screeched again.

“Stand up and turn around.”

He did as he was told, his eyes on the floor while the officer handcuffed his wrists behind his back.

“Sit down.”

He sat and watched as the officer clamped a pair of leg irons to his ankles. The other cop stood by, slamming his baton into the palm of his hand, an evil grin twisting his ugly face.

“Where you taking me?”

No answer, just a sharp command. “Stand up.”

Izzy stood.

The other cop stepped forward, and with an officer on each side holding his arms, the prisoner was prodded from the cell, then taken through the metal door and up a set of concrete stairs.

A warm blast of air struck him when a door at the top of the steps opened. He squinted in the light of the blazing sun as he was prodded through the doorway. The smell of hot asphalt filled his nose, mixed with fumes spitting from the tailpipe of a large cube van directly in front of him.

“Watch your step.”

The leg irons were drawn to their limit as Izzy navigated three steps and found himself in a windowless cubicle. It was nothing more than one of a handful of three-by-three boxes partitioned off in a cube van. He sat on the hard iron bench and the door squealed shut behind him.

He looked around his portable cell. The walls were covered with once shiny sheet metal, now caked with dried slime—probably spewed from the mouths of irate prisoners. Air came through a mesh-covered vent above his head. Another piece of sturdy mesh covered a dim light on the wall opposite the door.

The vehicle jolted forward. They were taking him to prison now. Terror of the unknown filled Izzy, and he shook, afraid and alone. The chains holding the cuffs to his wrists and ankles rattled in the stillness. A cry escaped his lips—a pleading for someone to stop the pain, to stop the torture he felt.

“Shhh. You’ll be okay now. I must go. I have a visitor and I can’t keep him waiting. You stay here and rest and I promise to be back soon.”

Izzy nodded at his mother. “Don’t be long.” He begged her with his eyes. “I’m afraid.”

She smiled, and it warmed him. “I won’t be long.” She breezed from the room and Izzy laid his head back and closed his eyes, comfortable in the knowledge she’d be back soon. She always was. And she always would be.

He didn’t know why she had so many different visitors, mostly in the evening, but she’d told him once it was business. She was smart that way. But sometimes he wondered. He was ten years old now, and though at times he thought it might be something bad she was doing, he banished the thought from his mind. Not his mother. It was only business.

Then a sudden explosion threw him violently forward. The vehicle bucked and bounced, finally landing on its side. The wall of his room became the floor, the door above his head. The light went out. A gun fired. Again and again. A muffled voice shouted something. More than one voice.

What was going on? It sounded like the vehicle had been blown up. Was there a fire? Would he perish? Where was his mother?

Something rattled at the door above him. Metal snapped. A bolt scraped back. The door swung up, slammed backwards, and a face peered over. The man turned his head and shouted, “This one ain’t him.”

“Check them all. He’s in here somewhere.”

The face disappeared and more banging came, then a voice called, “Here he is.”

“Help. Get me outta here,” Izzy called.

Silence.

He stared up at the doorway. “Please.”

Someone scrambled up the side of the vehicle. A face appeared in the doorway—the same face—then a pair of hands dropped a bolt cutter. It slammed into the wall by Izzy’s head, bounced, and came to rest at his side.

The man vanished, and all was quiet except for the sound of Izzy’s breathing and the cool breeze whispering across the open doorway.

Freedom.

He struggled to his feet, his head now in the open air, the bolt cutter gripped in one hand. A pickup stood fifty feet away, and three men dashed toward it. One had the remnants of leg irons fastened to his ankles. Izzy watched in awe as they jumped in the vehicle, then spun around and drove out of sight.

He turned his attention to getting loose. Sitting down, he managed to maneuver the bolt cutter into position. He put all his weight into it and heard a snap. His hands were free. After that, it was a simple matter to cut the irons from his legs, and he scrambled from the cell.

Dropping onto the asphalt, he studied his surroundings. He stood at the edge of a narrow highway somewhere outside of the city. The men who’d ambushed the vehicle had chosen the location well.