Free Trial by Fury by J. A. Jance Page B

Joanna Ridley had lied to us, more than once. In the world of murder and mayhem, liars are losers. And they're usually guilty.
    Just thinking about the next day made me weary. I stripped off my clothes and crawled into bed. I wasn't quite asleep when the phone rang.
    "How's it going, J. P.?"
    "Maxwell Cole, you son of a bitch! It's late. Leave me alone. I've got a job to do. I don't need you on my ass."
    "Look, J. P., here I am calling you up to lend a little assistance, and you give me the brush-off."
    "What kind of assistance?"
    "You ever heard of FURY?"
     
    "What is this, a joke?"
    "No joke. Have you ever heard of it?"
    "Well, I've heard of Plymouth Furies and ‘hell hath no fury.' Which is it?"
    "It's an acronym, F-U-R-Y. The initials stand for Faithful United to Rescue You."
    "To rescue me? From what?"
    "J. P., I'm telling you, this is no joke. These people are serious. They're having their first convention in town this week. They're up at the Tower Inn on Aurora."
    "So what are they rescuing? Get to the point, Max."
    "They're white supremacists. I interviewed their president today. No kidding. They want blacks to go back where they came from."
    "Jesus Christ, Max. What does all this have to do with me? I need my beauty sleep."
    "They said it's possible one of their members knocked off Darwin Ridley."
    "Send me his name and number. I'll track him down in the morning."
    "J. P.…"
    "Get off it, Max. You know how this works. Some kooky splinter group claims responsibility for a crime and manufactures a whole armload of free publicity. Don't fall for it. And don't complicate my life. I've got plenty to do without chasing after phony suspects who are playing the media for a bunch of fools."
    "Are you saying…" he began.
     
    "If the shoe fits!"
    With that, I hung up. The phone began ringing again within seconds, but I ignored it. It rang twenty times or so before it finally stopped.
    Within minutes, I was sound asleep and dreaming about Girl Scout cookies.
     

CHAPTER   10

    There's only one thing to do with that many Girl Scout cookies--take them to the office and share the wealth. So I drove to the Public Safety Building and parked the Porsche in the bargain basement garage at the foot of Columbia. I've noticed that my 928 commands a fair amount of respect from parking garage attendants.
    This one held the door open for me as I got out. Then I crawled back inside and dredged out the two cartons of cookies. When the kid handed me my parking ticket, I gave him a box of cookies.
    "Hey, thanks," he said, grinning.
    "Just handle my baby with care," I told him.
    "We always do," he replied.
    I was halfway up the block when I heard squealing tires as he jockeyed the Porsche into a parking place. There was no accompanying sound of crumpling metal, so I didn't worry about it.
    Peters glanced up from his newspaper as I put the cookies on my desk. "Want one?" I asked.
    "Are you kidding? That much sugar will kill you, Beau. What are you doing, peddling them for one of your neighbors?"
    "Peddling, hell! I'm giving this stuff away, all in the line of duty."
    "Don't tell me you bought that many cookies last night when you were talking to that little girl about the Ridleys."
    "She's a terrific salesman."
    "And you're an easy mark."
    For the remainder of the morning, while Peters and I valiantly worked at running a check on Joanna Ridley and tried to dredge a copy of the check out of a combination of Girl Scout and bank bureaucracy, our two desks became the social hub of the department. Word of free cookies spread like wildfire, and everyone from Vice to Property managed to stop by with a cup of coffee. Including Captain Lawrence Powell.
    He wasn't above taking a cookie or two before he lit into us. "Whenever you two finish socializing, how about stopping by my office for a little chat."
    Larry Powell's glass-enclosed, supposedly private office offers all the privacy of a fishbowl, which is what we call it. It isn't sound-proofed,