Move to Strike (51 page)

‘David didn't tell me,' said Joe, ‘about Barbara's conclusions about the guns.'

‘Of course he didn't,' said Sara. ‘Because there was no way he was going to risk you trying to stop him. What Barbara says makes sense – that if we seek out Logan's obsession, if we get between him and his urge to be near them, then we will draw him out. But the cost is high, Joe, and David being David, he wouldn't want to put you or anyone else in the firing line.'

Joe knew she was right.

‘The thing is, Joe, that reporter was spot-on,' she went on, pointing at the muted TV in the corner. ‘Our defence is scrappy and disorganised, and without any proof of Logan's true agenda it is only going to get worse. And as much as I don't want to put Katherine in danger, she may be our only option. We need her, Joe – and I need you and Frank to help her help us to get to the truth.'

Joe said nothing, the magnitude of it all sitting heavily in the air between them.

‘Does Cavanaugh know where the guns are?' he asked after a time.

‘No, but . . .'

And then it came to him. ‘You think he thinks they are at Chatham. You think that David believes Stephanie's brochure was a roadmap to Logan's lethal stash.'

Sara nodded. ‘He hasn't told me as much because he doesn't want to scare me. But it fits, Joe. Chatham is close, accessible, quiet.'

Joe paused once again.

‘And de Castro is on board?' he asked after a time.

‘Yes.'

‘And she understands the depth of this man's depravity?'

‘Well, I told her most of it – editing some of the scarier details such as the fact he just attempted to kill his mother.'

‘And you think de Castro is cool enough to be able to pull this off?'

Sara hesitated.

‘Sara?'

‘No,' she said, realising it was better to tell the truth.

Joe nodded, before rising from his seat once again.

‘Frank,' he said turning to his fellow detective friend, ‘go see Ms de Castro and see if you can't teach her a thing or two about effective audio surveillance. But take it easy on her; keep her calm until we all have the chance to get together on this thing later tonight.'

Frank nodded, before patting Sara on the shoulder and rising to leave the room.

‘Sara,' Joe went on, ‘call that pig-headed partner of yours and give him a briefing of your meeting with de Castro. Tell him you've spoken to me and I've suggested we all meet at nine tonight at Myrtle McGee's – Frank will bring de Castro and Mick can supply the beers.' It was the only thing Joe could think of to say to take the edge off the situation.

‘David's gonna kill me for leaving the house, Joe.'

‘And I'm gonna kill him for thinking he could go this one alone.'

‘I love him so much I hate him, Joe.'

‘Yeah, I know. David tends to have that effect on people.'

‘D
avid Cavanaugh's office, this is Nora Kelly speaking. How may I help you?'

Nora's voice echoed around the empty offices. With David and Arthur in court and Sara resting at home, she felt the dual sensation of anxiousness and responsibility – anxious to find out exactly how her co-workers were progressing during the second day at trial, anxious about the fact that Sara was due to give birth in a matter of days, but pleased she could be here holding the fort, while her colleagues did their best to set those poor children free.

‘Mrs Kelly,' said the girl. ‘My name is Tracey Scabo, we spoke some weeks ago when my friend, Ms McCall . . .'

‘Of course, Miss Scabo,' said Nora, sitting up in her seat. ‘How can I help you? Has there been some news of Ms McCall's whereabouts?'

‘Call me Tracey and . . . the answer to your question is no, but . . .'

‘What is it, Tracey?' asked Nora, her heart beating double time.

‘She rang me.'

Nora could not believe what she was hearing.
McCall had made contact
– which meant she must be well enough to move about, which meant she had not collapsed after fleeing the hospital moments after waking from a coma.

‘Thank God,' said Nora, a wave of relief washing over her. ‘What did she say, Tracey? Where is she?'

‘She said she was okay – I mean, that is why she rang, to tell me she was all right. She was worried I would be worried – which I have been, of course.'

‘And her whereabouts?' asked Nora again, her pencil at the ready.

‘That's the thing, Mrs Kelly, she refused to tell me where she was. She said she was calling from a payphone, but that she didn't want to involve me – that it was too dangerous!'

A disheartened Nora hesitated before going on. ‘She obviously cares for you very much, Tracey. But listen, dear, did she say anything that might give you an inkling as to where she might be. Did you hear any noise in the background or . . . ?'

‘No,' said Tracey, and Nora exhaled in disappointment. ‘But she called my cell, which meant the number came up on my screen.'

‘You have the number she called from?'

‘Yes, it was a 508 number.'

‘508,' said Nora, turning her computer screen around quickly so that she might Google the area code.

‘I looked it up,' said Tracey. ‘508 is one of the area codes for Cape Cod.'

‘
Cape Cod
,' repeated Nora, when finally it came to her. ‘Tracey, what parts of Cape Cod does that exchange cover, dear?' she asked as she continued to Google the area herself. ‘Does 508 include the area of . . . ?'

But she did not need the girl to answer. Nora had Googled the Chatham Bars Inn and, sure enough, its number was listed with a prefix of 508.

‘Tracey, I need you to give me the full number, dear, so that we might talk to the police and try to find out exactly where Miss McCall might be.'

‘But she told me not to look for her.'

‘Which is exactly why we must, dear. Miss McCall may be in danger,' she said, before realising she was probably scaring the girl half to death. ‘What I mean to say is, she should be examined by a doctor to make sure she is all right.'

Tracey agreed, giving the number to Nora before asking her to please keep in touch.

As Nora hung up the phone, her heart now pounding with a mixture
of nervousness, excitement and fear, she knew there was only one way she could truly help her loved ones to win this seemingly unwinnable case. She would call Joe Mannix and provide him with the information Tracy had shared, and then, when the time was right, she would drive to Chatham and find Miss McCall herself.

C
helsea Logan's skin was pale. She had just been taken to the bathroom by a female security attendant who waited outside while Chelsea barfed into the toilet. The afternoon session had been nothing short of catastrophic, Medical Examiner Gus Svenson having spent a good three hours detailing Stephanie Logan's extensive internal injuries, Amanda Carmichael making the most of a series of photographic ‘blow-ups', until juror number three, a middle-aged home-maker by the name of Cassandra Clements, requested a much needed recess so that the jury might hold on to their lunch.

David's head was spinning. Half of him was furious at Sara for not staying at home to rest and the other half wanted to kiss her for finally convincing Katherine de Castro to come on board. Not that he was sure what her efforts would accomplish, given Jeffrey Logan's superior intelligence and his innate ability to read a set up a mile and a half away.

He had not had a chance to tell the children about de Castro – and in all honesty he was not sure he should. For giving them false hope at this stage seemed beyond cruel, especially given what the pair had just had to sit through, seeing their murdered mother, in poster-sized, digitally enhanced colour, mutilated by a bullet powerful enough to create a bloody crater in her back.

‘They don't believe us,' said Chelsea. ‘They think we killed her for her money. They think we masterminded the entire scheme so that we could cut our father out of her will and live like royalty for the rest of our lives.'

David glanced at Arthur, knowing that what their distressed client was saying was true.

‘It is early days, Chelsea,' said Arthur, moving across the small court-side interview room to sit beside the trembling teenager. ‘Unfortunately, there was no way we could refute the ME's testimony as it was a basic statement of fact. But we can refute who is responsible for leaving your mother in such a condition. And we will.'

‘But nobody is going to believe us,' argued Chelsea, rising from her seat to pace the room. Her brother was sitting in the opposite corner, his head down, his right foot tapping nervously on the floor. ‘My father is invincible. The people love him – and now they hate us even more for conspiring to cut him out of that will.

‘Don't you see,' she said, and in that moment David wished Sara were here to comfort her, ‘those people, on the jury, they just spent the entire afternoon looking at pictures that will haunt them for the rest of their lives – and then they looked across at us, and the hatred in their eyes was unmistakable.

‘They don't just
want
to put us away David, they
need
to,' she said, meeting his eye. ‘Like we are some evil blot on their perfect utopian landscape – two deranged malformations with blood on our hands and greed in our hearts who blew our mother to bits in cold blood just so we could get our hands on her estate.

‘No,' she went on, stopping in front of her brother. ‘Our father had three victims in his sights when he plotted to get Mom's inheritance – it's just that me and J.T., well, we're taking longer to die.'

There was silence as David felt an all-encompassing realisation spread through his consciousness. It started as a chill in the base of his back before moving up his spine and consuming his entire body in a wave of horror and clarity. Chelsea was right, this wasn't just about the power, it was also about the money. Jeffrey Logan had recently inherited hundreds of millions of dollars thanks to the demise of his wife, and while he may have been a wealthy man in his own right, to a psychopath like Logan, enough was never enough, until he had bled all those around him dry.

‘Chelsea,' he said, moving towards her, ‘your mother was the sole owner of Rockwell Wineries, am I right?'

Chelsea's brow furrowed, obviously having no idea why David was asking the obvious.

‘Yes,' she said.

‘But a year ago this wasn't the case. A year ago she was the major beneficiary, a director and salary earner of your grandfather's company – a company he built from scratch.'

‘Yes,' said J.T., the first word he had spoken all afternoon.

‘But your grandfather, Stephanie's dad,' said David as be crouched down to take both J.T.'s and Chelsea's hands, ‘he died in a boating accident – what, sometime late last . . .'

‘It was just after last Christmas, he was sailing off the Cape,' said Chelsea.

‘Where abouts off the Cape, Chelsea?' asked David.

‘Ummm, I am pretty sure it was as east as the Cape takes you – on the elbow, just off the town of . . .'

‘Chatham,' said David.

And Chelsea nodded.

David shot a look at Arthur before moving on. ‘And do you guys remember if there was ever any investigation into his death? Did the local police make any queries, was an autopsy ever arranged?'

‘No,' said J.T., his right leg now stopping mid-shake. ‘They told us Grandfather was sailing in stormy weather when the boom most likely swung around to hit him – and that the force of the impact sent him overboard where the water was cold and rough and . . .'

‘Oh my God,' said Chelsea. ‘Do you think . . . ?'

But David was already on his feet. ‘Arthur, we need to talk to Joe – and then we have to get hold of a judge who is crazy enough to grant us a court order.'

‘I don't understand,' said a wide-eyed J.T. ‘A court order for what?'

‘To exhume your grandfather's body, J.T., and find the hole that marks the track of the bullet that killed him.'

Later that night

W
hen David finally entered the front door of the harbourside café known as Myrtle McGee's, he was overwhelmed by the sight before him. Looking up at him were nine people, his team of dedicated friends and supporters, people who were willing to put their lives on the line in order to fight for his cause – to save the Logan children and bring their father to justice.

He was late. After leaving the Logan kids he had gone back to the office to research the precedent of exhumation of the deceased – particularly those close to twelve months after death with no concrete evidence that the cause of death was anything except accidental. He was even trying to see a pattern – if one judge may have been more conducive to granting such a request compared to others – but in the end he had come up blank. There just weren't that many cases that required such a petition, which was obviously a good thing, except in this case, where finding a link to Logan's culpability seemed close to impossible.

Joe was there, with a dedicated Frank McKay by his side. And then there was Arthur, and Nora, psychologist and friend Barbara Wong-McGregor, the brave Katherine de Castro, and his beloved partner Sara. The eighth
person in the room was perhaps unexpected – his old college friend and Logan's lawyer Tony Bishop who, after taking a swig of his beer, walked across the room to shake David's hand.

‘Stephanie was my friend, DC,' he said. ‘Tomorrow morning I am going to go straight to my boss and officially remove myself from Logan's payroll so that I can help you squash the bastard.'

David smiled. ‘That must have hurt,' he said. ‘I believe Logan has a buck or two to spend.'

‘He can shove his money up his ass,' said Tony.