The Night Monster_ A Novel of Suspense - James Swain [52]
Then, Snook would not allow any family member to be given a polygraph test by the police, and would cite the unreliability of polygraphs in a court of law if questioned by the media.
Finally, Snook would hold a circuslike press conference. Standing with members of the grieving family, he would publicly question the police’s handling of the case, and point out leads the police had not followed up on. He would paint the police as idiots and bunglers, and divert attention away from the family.
That was Snook’s deal. I did not know of a single instance where he had helped the police find a missing child. But he had kept quite a few highly suspicious family members out of jail.
I drove down the Knockmans’ street. By south Florida standards, it was fairly wide, with generous sidewalks and plenty of trees. Many of the houses were two-story mansions surrounded by paddocks with three-board fencing and horse barns in the back of the property, the majority painted fire-engine red. Parked in the driveways were spotlessly clean Mercedeses and Beemers. The area reeked of money.
I drove past the Knockman address. Four police cruisers and several colorful TV news vans were parked in front of the house, a palatial white Colonial with navy blue shutters. A mob of reporters filled the lawn, jockeying for space while they gave their reports.
I parked on the next block behind a black Lincoln town car with a Hispanic chauffeur wearing a uniform. Loud music was blaring out of the car’s stereo of an unidentifiable origin. I got out with my dog and approached the vehicle.
“Are you Leonard’s driver?” I asked.
Snook’s chauffeur tilted back his hat and shot me a wary look.
“Who’s asking?” the chauffeur said.
I handed him my business card. He didn’t look too bright, and I said, “Leonard has hired me to help find the kid. He said the police are really screwing up the case.”
“Ain’t that the truth?” the chauffeur said.
“Where’s Leonard?”
“He’s already at the house, doing his stuff.”
“So tell me something. Which member of the family called Leonard?”
“I don’t know. Why?”
“I was just wondering who was going to pay me, that’s all.”
“My cell phone’s vibrating. Hold on a second.” The chauffeur pulled out his cell phone and stared at the Caller ID. “There’s Mr. Snook. Want me to ask him?”
The last time I’d seen Snook, he’d been tied to a chair and had soiled his pants while watching a client murder two innocent people. I’d called him a coward, and left him tied to the chair. Hearing my name was not going to bring back any fond memories.
“Don’t worry about it,” I said.
“Suit yourself, man.”
I started walking toward the Knockman house, Buster close behind.
Snook stood on the front lawn with a group of people I assumed were the Knockman family, looking resplendent in his thousand-dollar suit and silk necktie. He was small, maybe five-six and a hundred fifty pounds, and had snow white hair and a goatee, which was also snow white.
“The Broward County Sheriff’s Department has done nothing but harass the Knockman family from the moment this investigation began,” Snook stated into the bouquet of reporter’s microphones. “There is not a single shred of evidence linking the Knockman family to this tragedy, yet the police are expending most of their energy here, instead of out in the surrounding neighborhood, looking for poor Suzie.”
Poor Suzie. It had to be a new low, even for Snook. I skirted around the house, and walked to the back of the property. A chestnut quarter horse galloped past me in a nearby paddock, then started bucking, the wild energy a sight to behold.
“Jack.”
I turned to see Burrell standing at the back door of the house. Looking tired and pissed off at the same time. I held up two fingers.
“I come in peace.”
“Get in here.”
Burrell ushered me into the kitchen, a gleaming, high-ceilinged room that contained matching pairs of every expensive appliance and cooking utensil made.
“Nice place,” I said.
Burrell stood directly in front of me with her arms crossed. Her face was red, and there was anger written all