The raven, p.1
The Raven, page 1
THE RAVEN
HARRY STARKE: THE EARLY YEARS
HARRY STARKE GENESIS
BOOK 2
BLAIR HOWARD
CONTENTS
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
About the Author
Also from the Author
DEDICATION
This one is for my daughters Mallory, Jennifer, Kathryn and Sarah.
1
Sandra McDowell held her purse tightly under her arm as she crossed the dimly lit parking lot. She’d just completed a long day and then a long night of boring but necessary work for the Hamilton County School Board, of which she was a member.
They’d spent the day discussing everything from this year’s budgets and grants, to special commendations and scholarships for the County’s most advanced students. A lot of money talk, a lot of arguing, and a lot of animus. She was exhausted.
Sandra and her husband were quite wealthy… No, they were extremely wealthy, churchgoing, all around good people, and thus were involved in numerous charities. She and her husband were philanthropists so it had always been easy for her to give money away. She would have liked to do more: finance scholarships for education, for instance, and she could, but to do so was a bureaucratic nightmare—so many hoops to jump through that it left her exhausted—so she didn’t.
She was in it for the children, because she believed that she could be a force for good in the American education system, to help kids, including her own daughter Chelsea, learn and become the best that they could be. Unfortunately, being part of the system included talking money.
But the long day was over, and as she walked to her car, the clickety-clack of her heels on the pavement was the only sound to be heard echoing across the lonely parking lot.
It was ten after eight, the moon was up, white and round in the sky, and the cold night air made Sandra shiver. Or was it more than just the cold air? She'd always felt safe in that particular neighborhood, but that night she couldn't rid herself of the feeling that someone was watching her.
Must be the full Moon messing with my head, she thought, and a smile touched her lips. She wasn't superstitious and yet… the uneasiness persisted.
She pressed a button on the key fob, the lights on the Mercedes flashed, the locks clicked, and she quickly opened the door, climbed inside and locked the doors, surprised to find herself a little out of breath.
Don’t be stupid, Sandra, she thought. You’re being paranoid!
She looked around the deserted parking lot: nothing, just a half-dozen cars parked in their assigned spots close to the building. Mentally, she shrugged, then pushed the button to start the hybrid engine. The headlights came on but again, much to her relief, revealed nothing.
Oh come on, Sandra. You’re being stupid.
She put the car into drive and it rolled silently out onto the highway. She glanced at all three rearview mirrors and was relieved to see that no one was following her.
She applied pressure to the pedal, the gas engine kicked in, and the car surged forward toward Taft Highway and home.
Sandra loved driving at night. Being safe inside her car helped her feel more at ease, relaxed. She turned up the radio; soothing jazz filled the air. She hummed along with the tune, already anticipating a glass of red wine, a hot bath, and, finally, an hour relaxing with a good book. It had been a while since she’d allowed herself such luxury, and she couldn’t get home soon enough.
It was dark, the highway almost deserted. This was no time to be speeding, especially within the city limits, so she drove five miles below the speed limit, staying in the right-hand lane, glancing every now and then at all three rearview mirrors, halting at every stop sign and red light. Better safe than getting a ticket.
Suddenly, the jazzy melody on the radio was drowned out by an ear-splitting VROOOM, and the inside of the car and all three rearview mirrors were lit up by a brilliant white light, blinding her. There was no escaping it, the light, and she had to squint to see the road ahead. It was as if a semi-truck had crept up behind her and was not-so-subtly demanding she move out of the way.
“What are you doing?” she muttered. “Just come on past me, okay?”
But whoever was driving the floodlights made no attempt to pass. Instead, the vehicle—Sandra assumed it was one of those oversized pickup trucks—surged closer to her, uncomfortably close. Instinctively, she stepped on the gas, the big car surged up to and beyond the speed limit.
“Cut it out you… doofus!” she yelled at the mirror. The floodlights surged again, came within inches of her rear bumper, then dropped back.
Oh, dear Lord, he’s playing with me.
Again, she glanced up at the mirror and… Oh dear. Here he comes again… Bam!
Her head slammed back against the headrest, then jerked forward, causing her to lose control of the wheel, but only for a second, and then she realized what had happened: the madman had rear-ended her!
She was scared, really scared. Her heart beating as if it would jump out of her chest. She turned on her emergency lights, put her foot on the brakes, and brought the car to a stop on the hard shoulder, her hands still clutching the steering wheel, her knuckles white. The floodlights pulled off the road behind her and came to a stop some fifty feet to her rear.
Okay, Sandra,” she told herself. Get a grip of yourself. It’s just a fender bender, annoying, but nothing to worry about. Just exchange insurance info, and you'll be on your way.
She took the papers from the glove compartment and her phone from her handbag and stepped out onto the hard shoulder.
The big vehicle’s headlights seemed even brighter, so bright she couldn’t look at them directly. She shielded her eyes with her left hand and, keeping the big vehicle within her peripheral vision, she made her way slowly to the rear of her car. She glanced down at the rear of her car. The right-side taillight was broken and there was a nasty dent in the trunk lid.
“Hello,” she said when she saw the passenger door of the big vehicle open. “What a night, huh? You hit me.”
Oh, boy, did he ever? she said to herself, trying to make light of it, but she was becoming angrier by the second, because the man now approaching, a silhouette against the truck’s headlight, still had not said a word.
“Okay, listen,” she said, “It’s just a ding. Here’s my paperwork, I’ll—” Her eyes widened; instinctively, she raised her arm, and a millisecond later, something hard smashed into her head and left wrist.
She staggered backward, fell to her knees, grazing them on the cold, rough asphalt. She fell over sideways, her head spinning, her right hand on her left wrist, her eyes tight shut, teeth clenched from the pain, blood coursing down her face. She wanted to cry and couldn’t…
The man stood over her, frozen, the tire iron raised above his head. Sandra let out what she thought was a scream, but her own voice sounded to her as if she was underwater.
And so did another voice, a man’s voice, when he said, “Geez, can’t you do anything right. Here, give that to me, you idiot!”
He grabbed the tire iron, stood over Sandra, who looked up at him through a curtain of blood, and then he struck her again.
And again.
And again.
And…
Sandra McDowell’s head fell back onto the asphalt, and then… nothing.
2
I woke early that December morning in 2008, a Tuesday, as I recall. You know those mornings, right? When you wake up on the right side of the bed? You open your eyes and just know it’s going to be a great day. Yeah, it was one of those mornings, unseasonably warm, dry, and calm weather for early December. A cool breeze streamed in through the open window, the sun shining, the birds chirping.
I went to the kitchen, made myself a huge cup of coffee, black, and a generous breakfast: scrambled eggs, sausage, bacon, the whole shebang. After I ate, I took my coffee out onto the balcony of my condo and was gifted by one of those amazing scenic views of the Tennessee River. The sun was still at a low angle and played on the water, turning it into a magical river of golden ripples, and I couldn’t have imagined a nicer morning.
I’d been an ex-cop for only a few months, and only three weeks earlier had closed my first case as a PI, so waking up early was still wired into my brain. That morning, I didn’t complain.
My plan for the day was painfully simple. First, I’d make another cup of coffee. Then, I’d shower, dress in something comfortable and drive to the office—I run a private investigation agency, and we have an office in downtown Chattanooga, a few blocks from the Flatiron Building on Georgia Avenue. I’d listen to voicemail on the
I should’ve known then I was jinxing it—who wakes up with a dumb grin on their face? And at six-thirty in the AM, no less.
I’d finished my coffee and was headed back to the kitchen when my phone rang in the bedroom. I put the cup down next to the coffee machine and went to answer it.
It was my father, which immediately tipped me off that something wasn’t right. You know my father, right? August Starke. Today he’s a superstar attorney, but even back then in 2008 he was huge, and a call from him so early in the day likely meant he wasn’t calling to wish me good morning, something he rarely, if ever, did.
“Harry?” he said, in a voice that told me he was wide awake and had been for a while.
“Morning, Dad, what’s up?”
“Umm, yes, good morning… Harry, I need you to meet me at the Country Club today.”
“I appreciate the invitation, Dad, but today—”
“This isn’t a social call, Harry. This is serious.”
I stopped what I was doing and listened.
“It’s Jim McDowell. His wife, Sandra… she’s dead, Harry. She’s been murdered.”
My skin crawled. I didn't know Sandra that well—I'd seen her a few times at social events, and once at one of my father’s birthday parties—but I knew Judge McDowell was one of August’s closest friends, which made it personal.
“When do you want me to be there?” I said, mentally putting all my other plans for the day on hold.
“Ten o'clock. I'll be in the restaurant.”
“I'll be there.”
“Thanks, Harry.”
He hung up, and I put the phone down.
Damn.
I’m Harry Starke, by the way. Before becoming a private investigator I’d been a cop with the Chattanooga Police Department for more than ten years, nine of them a detective, so death was nothing new to me. I’d lost colleagues, and civilians, and three weeks earlier, during my very first case as a PI, I’d lost an informant, who was only a kid… But it was still hard to get over the thought that someone close to your family was dead. I knew Sandra McDowell was a loving wife and mother, and that she was beloved in the community. I’d never heard a bad word about the woman.
Why the hell would somebody want to kill her? I thought.
Jim McDowell was a District Court Judge, and a bona fide hard-ass, a present-day equivalent of Judge Isaac Parker—the hanging judge. Jim had made dozens, if not hundreds, of enemies throughout his career, so, naturally, my thoughts jumped to them.
Could this be a revenge killing by one of the criminals Jim put away? Or did Sandra have some skeletons in the closet of her own?
It was pointless to speculate about it, so I quit trying and hit the shower and then got dressed: a black T-shirt and jeans, shoulder holster with my M&P9, black leather jacket; what I considered the well-dressed, modern-day Mike Hammer would wear… Yeah, yeah, I’m jesting. I dress for comfort, not for show.
By then it was just after nine o’clock. I sorted through some paperwork, made a couple of quick calls, and then headed out the door… to what? I wondered.
3
I did listen to my voicemail on the way to the Country Club, and I did make a few more calls, the first of which was to Jacque Hale.
“You're up early, Harry,” she said. “You coming in?”
I had to smile. Jacque is my PA and one of the smartest people I know. She’s a beautiful young woman; Jamaican, five-nine, slim, a wonderful personality, and a smile that will melt your heart. But don’t let all of that fool you; Jacque has a Bachelor’s in Criminology and a Master’s in Business Administration, which is why I hired her, and which made her an essential part of the team.
“I'm afraid not,” I said. “Something’s come up, so I need you to cancel my appointments until… well, just cancel everything for today.”
“Yes, of course. Is everything all right?”
“Not quite. I’m on my way to meet my father… It looks like we might have a new case. I’ll update you as soon as I know more.”
Twenty minutes later I drove through the tall wrought-iron gates of the Country Club and up the long sandy driveway to the main building and the restaurant. Then I parked my Maxima among the shiny Bentleys and Porsches.
Maxima? Sure! And yes, I could have afforded something more… Hell, I could’ve afforded a Ferrari, but that would’ve been kind of stupid. People are quick to judge, and in my line of work, I need them to underestimate me.
Anyway, I found my father waiting for me in the restaurant drinking a cup of coffee. He stood up as I approached.
“Thanks for coming, Harry.”
We shook hands. Like I said earlier, August Starke is a well-known attorney specializing in tort—a fancy name for a personal injury lawyer—which is how he started his professional career many years ago. Even back then in 2008, though he wasn’t the billionaire he is today, he’d already become the scourge of big pharma. But, when he is not in the courtroom, you’d never guess it. At fifty-eight years old, my father liked to work out and, of course, play golf with his buddies and, most weekends, with me.
“How could I not?” I replied. “What’s the situation?”
“Come on, I'll show you.”
He left a ten-dollar bill under his coffee cup and led me through the restaurant to the back—the cigar smoking room, a place I’d rarely visited… I don’t smoke. Anyway, it was one of those old-timey looking rooms, with huge leather armchairs, dim lighting, and dark paintings on the walls. It was where the rich and anonymous cut their deals and fed their cancers… Ugh!
District Court Judge James Mattoon McDowell was seated in one of the chairs with a glass in his hand. Hard liquor at this time of day? He must be in one hell of a state.
He looked up at me. His eyes were like two chips of ice.
“Harry, thank you for coming.” He half stood, squeezed my hand, then sat back down again.
He wasn’t a big man, five-eleven, hair graying at the temples, neatly trimmed mustache, slim build, but fifteen years on the bench had turned him into a stern jurist that rarely ever smiled… at least not in public.
I sat down opposite him, and August stood beside his friend, one hand on his shoulder.
“I am so sorry for your loss, Judge,” I said.
“Thank you. And please, call me Jim.” He mustered a momentary smile but held his composure.
“What can I do to help?”
“Find the son of a bitch who killed my wife!” he snapped.
I knew Judge McDowell as a stoic man, a man who radiated confidence and gravitas, which meant I’d have to navigate the conversation carefully.
“I'll do what I can, Jim. Can you tell me what happened?”
“Last night…” He swallowed hard. “Sandra didn’t return home. I called, but she didn’t pick up. By then it was almost ten o’clock. She should have been home by eight-thirty. I called her again, and again. Still no answer, so I called 911 then, and… and…”
His emotions got the better of him. He put a hand to his face, wiped tears from the corners of his eyes with his thumb and index finger.
