“Good grief! Who was it?”
“Some man named Bruce Banks.”
The phone almost slipped from her hand. “Impossible, Chip. Not Bruce Banks. Impossible! Someone has the names crossed up in the Police Report. I can promise you it wasn’t Bruce Banks who she shot. He's up in Delaware.” She hung up and steadied herself against the car. 'God, I hope he's up in Delaware,' she said aloud.
Strange and improbable. So improbable it had to be a mistake. Too confusing for her to think about just then. Her Miata blocked traffic in the middle of the street where she’d stopped when she first noticed the abandoned bicycle under the ficus hedge. Traffic was backed up to the intersection, horns were honking, and drivers were yelling.
She called out to the drivers that the car couldn’t be moved; they’d have to go around. They’d yell back, “Then push the damn thing out of the way.” She also stood blocking the sidewalk and told people to cross the street and not walk on the side near the hedge.
Finally, a sheriff’s deputy pulled up, flipped on his overhead emergency lights, and popped his siren for a single loud yelp. He got out yelling, “Move your vehicle over to the curb, lady.” He started toward her, walking between her car and the curb. She screamed at him, “Stop, don’t walk along there.”
He ignored her and repeated, “Move your vehicle over to the curb.”
“This is the crime scene, officer. This is what you’re looking for. The kidnapper’s car must have stopped right where you’re walking. Why do you think I’m standing here yelling, waving my arms, and everyone’s giving me the finger?”
“The kidnapper’s car?”
“Didn’t Detective Triney send you over here?”
Next, a second sheriff’s patrol unit arrived. The uniformed driver got out. She noticed the stripes on his arm and rushed up to him. “Thank god you’re here, Sergeant. I hope you brought plenty of yellow tape with you.”
“You Sandra Reid?”
She nodded.
“You’re under arrest for conspiracy to commit murder.”
Chapter Ten
For the first time in her life, Sandra Reid was under arrest. She had ridden occasionally in the front seat of squad cars and police cruisers in Philadelphia and in Florida, unofficially in technical violation of departmental rules. That was fun. This was handcuffs.
Her protests to the sergeant weren’t about her arrest. She had yelled about Jamie’s bike back there in the bushes where deputies were trampling over the scene of a kidnapping to break up a stupid traffic jam. The arresting sergeant ignored her. Eventually, she gave up, sat quietly in the backseat behind the heavy metal grating, and wondered who was dead.
According to the arrest warrant the sergeant had shown her, she had conspired to murder Bruce Banks, who should be home in Delaware. Conspired meant someone else was involved and that would be Abby. How could it happen? No one else locally had ever heard the name of Bruce Banks.
A deputy took her to the sheriff’s office in West County. She was searched, fingerprinted, photographed, and asked a series of routine questions about her personal status. They cataloged and stored her personal property including her cell phone and her favorite piece of jewelry, a rehabilitated 1933 Mickey Mouse wristwatch. The deputies moving about, doing their jobs in such a police setting was all familiar to her. The cops were okay; it was the process that was frightening. She was quiet, not to protect her rights or anything like that, but because the procedure was too scary for any of her usual light banter with cops. It would have been much worse, she told herself, without Detective Lieutenant Triney standing in the corner of the room.
The deputies booking her were aware he was hovering, watching them, and occasionally giving their suspect his warm easy smile. He came over after the booking and told her he had already notified Jerry Kagan.
“I appreciate you watching out for me. But now the crime scene where I found the bike is all trampled from cops unblocking the traffic and arresting me. Also, I left my laptop on the front seat of my Miata.”
“I’ll go back over there now and look around,” he said. “We have your laptop, and the county towed your vehicle to the county auto pound.'
They put her in a holding cell, another chilling procedure for all except a seasoned criminal. It helped to remember she was innocent. Thankfully, Kagan was waiting for her there.
“How did you get here so fast?” she asked.
“In fact, I’ve been waiting here for an hour. Detective Triney phoned me when the sheriff’s office first received the arrest warrant from Moran.”
Jerry Kagan was still alert at age eighty something. He’d have unquestionably closed his law office by now except for her. Defending her brother had reenergized both him and his reputation.
He said, “Abigail Olin is already under arrest. However, I’m not certain of the exact charge. Maybe she implicated you.”
“Either that or Moran saw a slight opening to hassle me and make me sweat. Probably a little bit of both. I’ve really screwed up. Assuming Bruce Banks is the actual victim, he’d never have been down here if I hadn’t mentioned his name to Abby. Now he’s dead and I know he has three kids. I know everything about him. His wife will hate me for ruining her life. Don’t be surprised if she shows up with a gun looking for me. Toby is still on the loose. We still don’t know what he and Abby are up to. And Jamie’s missing.”
“First, you must worry about yourself with a charge of conspiracy to commit murder against you.”
“I should have never butted in. Now I’m in deep shit.”
He nodded. “You are. I can’t argue about that. State Attorney Moran believes he has something on you at last. This conspiracy charge...what’s it all about?'
“In a nutshell, when I was a teenager my mom learned I had done a little weed and stolen some of her pills. She freaked out and called a teen hotline for advice. Bottom line, I ended up in a corrupt juvenile rehab center with other girls, including Abby Olin. Bruce Banks was a counselor who sexually abused the girls and tried to abuse me. We became enemies when I didn’t put out.”
“So both of you knew Banks and hated him and now he’s dead. Excellent motive. Doesn’t sound too good to me.”
“He’s old news. When I innocently recalled his name to Abby, she must have contacted him, most likely by email. She wanted the name of a real life villain thrown in the mix so she’d have evidence she was justified in thinking she was being stalked.”
“So, she didn’t actually expect him or want him to come down here,” he said. “She just needed any kind of response that would suggest he was interested in her.”
“That’s my guess. She might never have dreamed he’d really show up. Hate to tell you, Jerry. Moran may get his hands on my laptop. I left it in my car.”
“If so, it’s now evidence. Anything in there about Banks?”
“Plenty and it’s all incriminating. I’ve kept track of Banks over the years. I’ve got personal information about him, his family, and his job that I obtained using my firm’s tracking facilities. I made a silent promise to the abused girls I’d get even someday.”
“Does Abby know you’ve been tracking him?”
She appeared contrite. “I told her when we got reacquainted. Do you think she told Moran?”
“Absolutely. If he knew you had incriminating entries on your laptop, he’d definitely want it. Moran may even have had you arrested so he’d have probable cause to search your laptop. He’d never get a warrant otherwise.”
“Is he really that clever?”
“Even a blind squirrel will occasionally stumble over an acorn.”
“Hey, I like that. So, what happens next?”
“A law student shouldn’t need to ask me that. You need to brush up on the criminal process in Florida, Miss Reid.”
