The Night Stalker_ A Novel of Suspense - James Swain [39]
“Six and a half years,” she said.
“What was the first thing I ever taught you?”
“It’s all about the kid.”
“I’ll talk to you later,” I said.
I drove to a convenience store a few blocks away, buying a package of cupcakes and a Dr Pepper for myself, some beef jerky for Buster. I had stopped eating junk food years ago, except when I was working a case. Then it was the only thing I ate.
As I paid up, I saw a stack of local newspapers by the register. The headline read NIGHT STALKER TO DIE. I bought a copy, and read the article in my car.
The article didn’t say anything new. Abb would be executed by lethal injection in three days. The governor wasn’t going to stop it, and none of the organizations against capital punishment were voicing a protest. His time had run out.
The article had a sidebar that talked about the seven Jane Does. Forensic imaging had been performed on each victim using pictures of their skulls in the hope that someone might recognize them. I looked at their faces long and hard. Maybe someday we’d know who they were. But I had a feeling that someday was a long way off.
My cell phone rang as I was pulling out of the lot. I pulled the phone off the Velcro on the dash, and flipped it open.
“Carpenter here.”
“My name is Charles Crippen,” a man with a deep voice said. “You may have heard of me. I own a law firm in town.”
I had heard of Charles Crippen. He was considered one of the better lawyers in south Florida. “What can I do for you, Mr. Crippen?” I replied.
“One of my employees has gone missing. I need you to find her.”
“I’m sorry, but I’m working a case.”
“Her name is Piper Stone. She was in the process of filing an appeal for a stay of execution for Abb Grimes, and now no one can find her.”
An icy finger ran down the length of my spine. I turned my wheels so my vehicle was pointed at the street.
“Give me your address,” I said.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Crippen & Howe had been advertising on billboards throughout the county since I was a kid. The ads showed two men. Charles Crippen, the firm’s elder statesman, wore a neatly trimmed goatee and a yachtsman’s deep tan, while his partner, Bernie Howe, was a bulldog with a bad hair replacement job. Their law firm occupied a two-story Spanish colonial on Broward Boulevard surrounded by an imposing wrought-iron fence.
I parked in the private lot behind the building, grabbed my dog, and walked down a sidewalk to the front entrance. The gate was locked, and I pressed the buzzer while looking into the lens of a boxy security camera.
“May I help you?” a woman’s voice said over the intercom.
“Jack Carpenter for Charles Crippen.”
“Is he expecting you?”
“I’m here about Piper Stone.”
“Stay right there.”
I waited. The sun was shining and sweat poured down my back. Finally, the receptionist returned. “Mr. Crippen will see you now.”
She buzzed me in, and I walked up the brick path and entered the building. The reception area was no more than an alcove. Behind a desk sat a woman with a hairdo that looked like a Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade float. She came out of her chair like she’d been hit with a cattle prod. “Sir, no dogs are allowed in the building.”
“You let criminals in here every day,” I said. “Drug dealers, murderers, rapists. But you’re telling me dogs aren’t allowed. How does that work?”
Before she could respond, Charles Crippen entered the alcove. He was tall, and wore a dark pin-striped suit and blazing red tie. He asked me to follow him.
Crippen’s office was on the second floor of the building. It was enormous, with furnishings befitting a king. Once the door was closed, he sat at his desk and undid his necktie. He started to speak, then noticed Buster standing by my side.
“Is he with you?” Crippen asked.
“Never seen him before,” I replied.
“I heard you were a character. Please have a seat.”
I pulled up a chair and sat down while Buster lay dutifully beside me.
“It all started last night,” Crippen said. “I came back from a client meeting, and found Piper in her office. It was about nine-thirty. I assumed she