attorney Leonard Snook all the more damning.
Everyone was entitled to hire an attorney; it was written in the Constitution. Only it didn’t make sense to hire an attorney when you hadn’t been charged with a crime. Yet that was exactly what the Knockmans had done.
I had seen Snook represent families of missing kids before, and I knew how he worked. His playbook went like this:
First, Snook would make the Knockmans circle the wagons and stop talking with the police. Snook would become the conduit for any communication between the family and the cops. All information would flow through him.
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 over it. I’d crossed a line that I shouldn’t have crossed.
“You shouldn’t have spoken to me like that,” she said.
“I know. I was wrong. It was the way I was raised.”
“Are you trying to be funny?”
I shook my head. My father was the most stubborn man I’d ever known, and I was my father’s son.
“I’ll make it up to you,” I promised.
“I’m going to hold you to that,” Burrell said. “Let’s go.”
I followed her through the house. The downstairs was deceptively large. I peeked into the rooms at antique furniture too old to have been made in Florida. The joint reeked of old money, and I wondered whose side of the family it had come from.
We came to a winding staircase and Burrell halted. The living room was off to her right, and through a picture window I saw Snook out on the front lawn, basking in the TV camera’s bright lights.
“Come on, Jack, hurry,” Burrell said.
“What’s the rush?” I asked.
“If Snook sees you inside the house, he’ll start screaming his head off. He’ll want to know why the police are letting a civilian work the case.”
“Who’s running this investigation? You or him?”
Burrell acted offended. “What kind of question is that?”
I went to the front door and locked it.
“Screw Snook,” I said.
Suzie Knockman’s bedroom was on the second floor at the end of the hallway. As was customary with missing children investigations, it had been classified as a crime scene and yellow police tape crisscrossed the door. Burrell pulled the tape down.
“It’s all yours,” she said.
I handed Burrell Buster’s leash, and entered the bedroom. It was lavishly decorated, with a four-poster bed, a closet filled with expensive clothes, and a wooden toy chest overflowing with beautiful dolls and teddy bears. It was too much, even for a rich kid. Someone was indulging Suzie.
A framed photograph sat on the dresser. Suzie was slender and dark-skinned and had multiple earrings in both ears. She was extremely attractive, only she wasn’t smiling in the photo. I looked at Burrell, who’d remained in the hallway with my dog.
“Give me a timeline,” I said.
“Suzie left school yesterday afternoon at three-thirty, but never came home. She normally walks home with a group of friends, but they didn’t see her. Her mother says she tried Suzie’s cell phone, but it wasn’t turned on.”
“What was Suzie carrying?”
“Her books and her purse.”
“Does she have credit cards?”
