Web of Justice (7 page)

They had the right man. Hank had no doubt.

An area on the far wall was covered with long locks of black hair secured to the unpainted drywall with packing tape. Hank approached a homemade workbench along the right wall. An electric razor sat on top, still plugged into an extension cord winding its way to an outlet on the wall.

A woman’s handbag hung from a hook above the bench. Hank had no doubt it belonged to Olivia Bragg. A coil of rope hung beside it.

In the middle of the floor, with wisps of hair surrounding it, stood a sturdy wooden chair. Bits of rope clung to the arms and legs. Wilde’s victim had no doubt sat in that chair, been shaved and probably strangled to death in the same spot before being transported to the park and dumped.

Hank turned his attention to a cot against the left wall. It was covered by a plain white sheet, a pillow at one end. The bed appeared to have been slept in. Hank frowned, attempting to understand its significance. Would Wilde be sleeping here, surrounded by his trophies, or was it meant for someone else?

Had he tied his victim to the bed and spent the night guarding her, finally killing her the next day?

Hank snapped a few pictures with his cell phone, being careful not to touch anything. CSI would soon be called in to document the contents of the building in detail.

A cop poked his head into the doorway. “There’s a car in the garage, Hank.”

“Be right there,” Hank said. He took a last glance around and left the building. He’d seen enough.

He went to the garage and peered through a dusty side window. A midsized car sat in the darkened building. He couldn’t tell what make it was, but it would soon be towed in and gone over thoroughly.

Hank returned to the house and glanced across the lawn. King strode toward him and stepped onto the driveway, shaking his head, a grim look on his face.

“Lost him, Hank.”

“We’ll get him,” Hank said. He filled his partner in on what he’d discovered in the shed.

King’s eyes narrowed. “I should’ve shot him in the back when I had the chance.”

“Maybe he deserves it,” Hank said. “But he’s not worth getting an early retirement over.” Hank crossed his arms, frowned toward the trees, and repeated, “We’ll get him.”

Chapter 11

Tuesday, 5:54 p.m.

JAKE HUNG UP HIS cell phone and tucked it into his shirt pocket. He’d just talked to Hank, and the cop had filled him in on the events of the afternoon. Jake was concerned that, although they’d almost nabbed the suspect, he was still on the loose and possibly more dangerous than ever.

Hank had issued a BOLO for the fugitive as well as organizing a manhunt in the neighborhood of Izzy Wilde’s residence and the forest beyond. But there were a lot of places to hide.

Jake went into the office where Annie sat at her desk, going over her scant notes of the case. She leaned forward, her brow furrowed, as Jake filled her in on Hank’s phone call.

“We have to talk to Carter Wilde,” Annie said when Jake had finished. “If he’s the only family left, Izzy might turn to him.”

“Hank already talked to him,” Jake said. “Carter claims to have no knowledge of his brother’s whereabouts. Says he hasn’t been in contact with him for several months.”

Annie leaned back and frowned. “There’s no use in us going to Izzy’s house. The cops aren’t going to let us poke around the shed. It’s a crime scene. And I’m sure the house’ll be off-limits as well.” She paused. “We need to come up with something else.”

“He could be anywhere,” Jake said.

“He has to be somewhere.”

“Between Hank and King, they’ll either talk to, or visit, everyone Izzy knew,” Jake said. “There’s not much point in us covering the same ground.”

“I don’t know enough about Izzy to know how intelligent he is, but if he murdered his mother and got away with it, he must have something going for him.”

“What’s your point?” Jake asked.

“I’m sure Izzy knows the police would be visiting his brother right away. He might stay away until then, but I think he’ll contact him as soon as he feels safe.”

“If he does,” Jake said, “it’s because he knows his brother won’t turn him in.”

“Maybe. Maybe not.”

“Perhaps I should stake out Carter Wilde’s place,” Jake said.

“That’s my point,” Annie said with a smile. “I know you don’t like stakeouts much, but do you have a better idea?”

Jake shook his head. “Nothing I can think of right now.”

“I’d go with you,” Annie said, “but I have no one to watch Matty tonight. Chrissy’s not home and I don’t wanna call my mother.”

Jake sighed and stood. “Get me a picture of the two of them as well as Carter Wilde’s address. I’ll round up what I need.”

He picked a shoulder bag off a shelf in the office and dropped in a pair of binoculars along with a Nikon digital camera. He went to the kitchen, grabbed some bottles of water from the fridge, put them in the bag, and went back to the office.

Annie handed him a folder and he flipped it open. It contained black-and-white photos of the brothers along with their addresses. “That was fast,” he said.

“Not when you know the right people. I gave Callaway a call and he emailed them to me.”

Jake tucked the folder into the duffel bag, zipped it up, and slung it over his shoulder. “Don’t know when I’ll be back,” he said, strolling from the office.

He poked his head back in a moment later. “And I’m taking your car.”

He grabbed Annie’s keys from a wicker basket on the kitchen counter, and two minutes later, he pulled her Ford Escort from the driveway. The Firebird would draw too much attention, especially during daylight hours, and it was important to remain as nondescript as possible.

As he drove, Jake kept one eye on the road while he studied the information Annie had obtained. Carter Wilde lived in an apartment at 1166 Red Ridge Street where he’d been the superintendent for some time. The apartment building was in a growing part of the city, about a mile from the outskirts and the old house where Izzy Wilde lived.

When Jake arrived, he pulled into the visitors’ parking area and backed into a spot. He had a good view of the front door and would be able to see anyone coming and going.

The building, stretching up eight stories, appeared to be a recent addition to the city, possibly built within the past five years or so. The lawns and greenery were well maintained, with a large grassy area set aside for the residents’ use. A handful of people sat at a picnic table nearby, enjoying their surroundings as they consumed their evening meal.

He pushed the driver seat back to its limit, removed the binoculars from the shoulder bag, and settled in for a long wait.

Residents came and went, cars pulled in and out of the underground parking lot, and Jake zoomed in on everything that moved. If Izzy Wilde came to see his brother, Jake was determined to nab him.

But Wilde never showed up, and two hours later, Jake yawned, finished off another bottle of water, and got out of the car to stretch his cramping legs.

That’s when he saw Izzy Wilde’s face for the first time.

A car turned off the street, drove into the circle driveway, and rattled toward Jake. The driver glanced his way, then leaned into the steering wheel and stepped hard on the gas. Jake dove for the Escort, grabbed the binoculars, and zoomed in on the driver’s face as the vehicle circled the driveway, heading back to the street.

There was no doubt. Jake had studied the printout, and the driver of the car was definitely the fugitive. But where had he gotten the vehicle? It was an old Honda—probably a dozen years old—and by the sound of the engine, it was ready to be recycled.

Jake started the Escort and spun from the lot. He steered with one hand, grabbed the camera with the other, and zoomed in on the license plate of the fleeing vehicle. He memorized the plate number, snapped a picture, and dropped the camera onto the passenger seat.

He shoved the gas pedal to the floor, and though the Escort breezed along at a brisk pace, Izzy was pushing the Honda to the limit, and Jake wasn’t gaining any ground. Now he wished he’d brought the Firebird.

He took out his cell phone and dialed Hank. A direct call to the detective would be faster than going through 9-1-1 and waiting for dispatch to get the message.

“Detective Hank Corning.”

“Hank, it’s Jake. I’m following Izzy Wilde. He’s driving a beat-up Honda, but I might lose him. Ontario plates 719 SDX. It’s ten or so years old. Navy blue. He just left his brother’s apartment building, heading south.”

“Hold on.”

Jake put his cell on speaker and propped it up against the dashboard as the Honda made a right turn a block ahead of him. Jake slowed for a jaywalker, then hit the gas and pulled a right turn. He peered through the windshield and slapped the steering wheel. Wilde was gone. Jake continued on, checking both directions at the next intersection, but the Honda was nowhere to be seen.

He drove another block, took a left, and glanced around.

Hank came back on the phone. “Dispatch has sent all available units to the area and issued a BOLO for the vehicle.”

“I don’t see him anywhere,” Jake said. “But he can’t be far away.”

“Stay on the phone.”

Jake peered in all directions, hoping to see the elusive vehicle. At the next street, he took a wide left and there it was, stopped halfway onto the curb, the driver door hanging open. Jake ground to a stop beside it, grabbed his phone, and jumped from the Escort.

Izzy Wilde was tearing across the front lawn of the adjacent house. He scrambled over a high wooden fence and disappeared from view.

“He’s on foot,” Jake said into the phone, racing across the grass. “He dumped the car.”

Jake vaulted over the fence as Wilde hit the next street, crossed over and ran to his left, out of view.

Jake followed, stepped onto the sidewalk, and scanned the area. He squinted at a figure ambling toward him. It wasn’t Wilde.

The fugitive was gone.

“I’m on Silverpine,” Jake said into the phone. “I’ve lost him.”

Dozens of houses lined the street, and Izzy could be hidden from view behind any of them. The suspect seemed to know he was being chased, and he’d be determined to get out of the area as soon as possible.

“Cruisers will be there shortly,” Hank said.

Jake sprinted up the street, hoping to see the wanted man, but it was futile. He jogged back to the Escort, gave Hank the location of the abandoned vehicle, and drove around a few minutes longer. Cruisers had now arrived and were patrolling the streets.

Half an hour later, Jake was convinced the slippery fugitive had eluded capture once again.

Chapter 12

Tuesday, 8:35 p.m.

LISA KRUNK WAS fuming. She hadn’t been able to get any comment from Detective Corning that morning regarding the murdered woman in the park. She had planned to corner him when he left the scene, but he’d somehow managed to slip away and leave her hanging.

Though he’d circled the entire area, Don had been unable to get any actual shots of the victim. The real action had taken place behind a group of trees, and she’d had to settle for some almost useless footage of cops milling about behind the taped-off park. And though Don had captured the sheet-covered gurney as it had been taken to the coroner’s van, it would be insufficient to satisfy her multitude of waiting fans.

A trip to Izzy Wilde’s place of residence had netted her nothing useful. She’d been denied access to the property, and from the road there was little to see, even with Don’s powerful zoom lens.

As the best reporter in the city, probably in the country, she felt slighted that someone of her stature should be pushed aside. Her unequalled investigative skills had aided the police many times in the past, and though she’d always demanded something in return for her efforts, she’d often been indispensable to their investigations.

There was no doubt her stories often appeared to cast the police department in a bad light, but surely Hank understood she was just doing her job. There was nothing personal about it.

The worst part of this case was, if it weren’t for her contact in the police department, she wouldn’t even have the victim’s and suspect’s names.

But the names were a start. And though the murder would be old news before long, she was determined to breathe new life into it, so to speak.

She’d found out the suspect had a brother living close by, and it didn’t take her long to track him down. An interview with him would be better than nothing, and she might be able to piece together a juicy story to lead off the eleven o’clock news.

She had to pay Carter Wilde a visit. There wasn’t much else she could do.

Don swung the Channel 7 Action News van into the parking lot of 1166 Red Ridge Street and hopped out. Lisa waited while he grabbed his equipment from the back of the vehicle and dropped the camera onto his shoulder. She slammed the passenger door and strode to the entranceway of the apartment building, Don struggling to keep up.

She evaded the security lock by slipping into the main lobby of the building behind a little old lady who was kind enough to hold the door open for them.

The building superintendent usually had an apartment on the main floor, and this building was no exception. She went to apartment 101, took a deep breath, and rapped on the door. She raised her head, looked down her thin, sharp nose and waited.

The door swung open and a man appeared, his brow raised in question. “Yes?”

Lisa gave her best smile, her generous mouth revealing a row of perfect teeth. “Carter Wilde?” she asked.

“Yes.”

She studied his face. A well-trimmed beard decorated his square jaw. He had a receding hairline, with a widow’s peak pointing toward his strong nose.

“I’m Lisa Krunk from Channel 7 Action News. May I talk to you about your brother?”

She steeled herself for an immediate refusal, the usual first response. On occasions like this, the trick was to get her target to open up—not always an easy task. Oddly enough, the ones who were familiar with her were usually the hardest to crack.