by Karen Rose
Thorne unfolded two chairs and gestured for him to sit. ‘It gets a little loud for me sometimes, too.’ He held out a hand, palm up. ‘A dollar.’
Sam gave it to him. ‘Now what?’
‘Now everything you say to me is protected by attorney/client privilege. So tell me a story, Officer.’
Wight’s Landing, Maryland, Sunday, March 16, 8.30 P.M.
Clay locked the boathouse door and set its alarm. He’d finished his check of the security system, above water and below. Everything was functioning properly as he’d known it would be.
He’d used the systems check as an excuse to get out of his father’s house, to clear his mind. To catch his breath. Sitting at that table with Stevie, calmly discussing murderers and plans to catch them – using her as fucking bait, for God’s sake . . . He would rather be in a combat zone with bullets whizzing past his ears than go through that again.
He headed back to his father’s house, his step slow. I’m tired. He was simply worn down and couldn’t afford to be. Not right now. Not when so much hung in the balance.
He let himself in the gate and was almost at the back door when he heard her voice.
‘Clay?’
He stopped, not looking over at the swing where Stevie sat alone. ‘Where is Cordelia?’
‘She’s asleep. I . . . I needed to talk to you.’
‘Later. I’m going to sleep, too. Good night.’ But he didn’t move. Just stood staring at his father’s back door. Finally, he sighed. ‘What do you want?’
‘There’s something I need to know. What did I say that made you so angry?’
He hung his head, weary. ‘Does it matter?’
‘Yes,’ she whispered fiercely. ‘It matters to me.’
The breath seemed to seep out of him. ‘You said you needed to fill your tank.’
‘Yes. Because it’s been a long time for me. You knew that. Why did it hurt you?’
‘Because . . . Hell.’ He shoved his fingers through his hair, wishing he could shove the pounding sledgehammer out of his head. ‘Someone advised me that I deserved more than someone just topping off her tank.’ That I deserved forever.
‘Oh.’ The little syllable carried almost soundlessly in the night.
‘I won’t be a scratch for your itch,’ he said, the hurt rising up to choke him. ‘I don’t want you that much. I don’t want anyone that much. I’ll protect you and Cordelia until this is over. Then I won’t bother either of you anymore.’
He went into the kitchen, leaving her sitting there in the dark. He wasn’t sure what he would have done had she called him back. Was grateful he didn’t find out.
Paige and Grayson sat at the table with Emma and her husband. All four looked up when he came in alone, and he knew they were aware of the ongoing drama between him and Stevie.
No. No longer ongoing. Because it was past. Done. Yeah, right. You keep telling yourself that if it makes you feel like less of a pathetic loser.
Paige patted the empty chair next to her. ‘Sit. We had another idea for Operation Bait.’
The thought of Stevie as bait made him sick to his stomach, but as he’d told her, he couldn’t think of anything better. ‘Okay.’ He sat down. ‘I’m listening.’
‘We want the shooter to come for Stevie sooner versus later,’ she said. ‘Having Stevie simply check into Emma’s room won’t be enough. We need to be sure whoever broke in once will know to come back.’
‘Sooner versus later,’ Clay murmured. Because he wanted this done. ‘And so?’
‘We’ll have Emma do a TV interview in “her” hotel room,’ Paige said. ‘Emma leaves and you and Stevie wait. Shooters come, badda bing, badda boom, you catch them.’
Clay frowned, too many questions swirling in his mind. ‘I thought we were keeping Emma and Christopher low key.’
‘We are,’ Christopher said. ‘About our returning to our kids. This would be Emma telling TV land that she’ll be a guest lecturer at the university here in Baltimore next week.’
Clay’s frown deepened. ‘But she’s not planning to lecture. Is she?’
‘If you catch these shooters before then, then yes,’ Emma said. ‘I have a colleague who’s been asking me to lecture to his psychology class for years. He’ll jump at the offer.’
Clay hesitated, unsure how to put what he was thinking into words that wouldn’t offend her. Then decided that hurting her feelings was better than risking her life – or Stevie’s – on a plan that wouldn’t work. ‘But . . . I mean, I know you’re a big author and all, but would this really be news? Enough to attract enough media exposure to make a difference?’
One corner of Emma’s mouth lifted. ‘Ordinarily, no. Haven’t you seen the news?’
‘No. I’ve been a little busy.’
‘Well, your local star reporter, Phin Radcliffe, has dubbed me the “Florence Nightingale of the Harbor House Shooting Spree”.’
‘You’re joking,’ Clay said, but could see that she was not. ‘Really?’
‘Unfortunately, really,’ Emma said grimly. ‘“She’s tended wounded hearts for years,”’ she quoted, ‘“but the author of Bite-Sized morphed from Dr Phil to Florence Nightingale as she tended wounds of a much bloodier variety.”’
‘Somebody got video on their phone of Emma giving that dying woman first aid,’ Grayson said with disgust, ‘and sold it to the media. It went viral in minutes. That video, along with interviews with the restaurant customers and staff, have been top of the news on every channel.’
‘The video helped keep me sane,’ Christopher confessed. ‘I kept playing the video on YouTube, watching her. Reminding myself she wasn’t hurt.’
Emma patted his hand, then looked at Clay. ‘So, to answer your question, Emma Townsend, the author, wouldn’t be enough to grab media attention. But the “Florence Nightingale of the Harbor House Shooting Spree” just might. We won’t know until we try.’
‘When would you do this interview?’ Clay asked.
‘Tomorrow, we hope,’ Paige said. ‘I’ve got Phin Radcliffe’s cell phone number. He’s always looking for a scoop.’
‘So, assuming you get the media coverage, then what?’ Clay asked. ‘Details, please.’
‘Emma does the interview from her suite at the Peabody Hotel,’ Paige said. ‘The Peabody’s elevator goes straight from the rooms down to the parking garage. When she’s done, we smuggle her out, smuggle Stevie in, then Stevie waits for whoever wants to make her into Swiss cheese.’
‘I’m staying with Emma until the interview is done,’ Christopher stated firmly.
‘That’s fine,’ Paige said. ‘We’ll take you to the private plane you’ve chartered afterward.’
Clay nodded. ‘I like this plan better than having Stevie check in as Emma wearing a blond wig. She never could have walked through a hotel lobby without her cane and it would have been a dead giveaway.’ He winced at his choice of words. ‘How will you smuggle Emma out?’
Paige smiled. ‘Leave that to me. I have an idea.’
Grayson pushed away from the table. ‘You’re in trouble now, Emma. I’m going to get some fresh air, then some sleep. Clay, get some rest. You look exhausted.’
Emma and Christopher got to their feet as well. ‘I’ve got to get my beauty sleep,’ Emma said, ‘if I’m going in front of the camera tomorrow.’
‘Sweet dreams.’ But Paige didn’t look at the couple leaving to go upstairs. She was watching Grayson out on the back porch. ‘He’s going to talk to Stevie. He’s worried about her,’ she said softly, then turned to Clay. ‘And I’m worried about you.’
‘Save it,’ he said, more abruptly than he’d planned to, but saw that Paige understood. ‘I’m sorry. I’m . . . tired.’ So damn tired.
‘Then, go to sleep, Clay,’ she said gently. ‘I’ll keep watch tonight.’
‘Thanks. I’ll try.’
Baltimore, Maryland, Sunday, March 16, 8.55 P.M.
Thorne leaned back in his chair as Sam finished his story. ‘This is q
uite a mess.’
‘I know. I should have come forward then. I didn’t think anyone would believe me.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because my dad had been arrested a lot of times for drug use. Mostly misdemeanors. He had two felonies. One for dealing and one for beating up my mom.’
Thorne’s eyes flickered and Sam had the feeling the attorney knew what it had felt like to watch his mother being beaten. ‘That was your dad. Were you ever in trouble?’
‘No. Not really. But the night the cops came, the night they arrested him for beating her up, they had to pull me off him. I came home and he’d almost knocked her unconscious, trying to make her tell him where she’d hidden her grocery money.’
‘Anything for a fix,’ Thorne murmured. ‘The cops saw you restraining your father. So?’
‘No. They saw me hitting him. Heard me threatening to kill him if he ever put his hands on her again. A neighbor had called the cops that night. I didn’t.’
‘Why not?’ Thorne asked again.
‘Because I’d called before, too many times. Mom always said we’d handle it ourselves. She always told the cops to go away. Some of them knew my dad. He’d been a high school teacher, had taught some of their kids. Hell, he’d even taught a few of the younger cops when they’d been in high school. Nobody wanted to arrest him. They tried to get him to go to rehab.’
‘But it didn’t work.’
‘No.’
‘How old were you when the cops caught you hitting him?’
‘Fifteen.’
‘Old enough to know better, but young enough not to think,’ Thorne said quietly. ‘Were you written up? Was this officially documented in any way?’
‘Not that I know of. Nobody said anything to me about it then, anyway. But cops have long memories. And even if I hadn’t done anything that night that I can’t remember, the gun I found had been fired and I’d been witnessed to be a hothead.’
‘Once. Did you ever beat up anyone else?’
‘No, never. But if I got brought up on charges or even investigated by IA, all it would have taken was one cop with a long memory to come forward and my career would have been toast.’
‘Possibly. Did your father go to jail the time you beat him after he’d beaten your mom?’
‘Only for six months. She was too unconscious to tell the cops to go away,’ Sam said bitterly. ‘The prosecutor charged him with felony assault. Mom was in the hospital for days.’
‘When you woke up in that hotel room, did you consider that you’d shot your father?’
Sam frowned. Tried to be honest. ‘Maybe. Maybe that’s why I was so scared.’
‘You could have had yourself tested for gunshot residue.’
‘I’d been to the firing range right before I went to the party. I’d have tested positive.’
Thorne was quiet for a moment. ‘How often do you go to the firing range?’
‘Once a week at a minimum. Twice if I can work it in.’
‘And back then?’
‘The same.’ Sam lifted his brows. ‘You think someone knew I’d been to the range?’
‘Possibly.’ Thorne studied him carefully. ‘You said you checked for crimes committed with a gun that hadn’t been found.’
‘Over the day and a half I lost, yes,’ Sam said. ‘And I kept checking for several months afterward. But this body was found in the Severn, a half-mile before it dumps into the bay. That’s Anne Arundel County’s jurisdiction and their county cops processed it. Nobody claimed the body and there were no markings other than the tattoo. No fingerprints.’
Thorne grimaced. ‘Damn fish.’
Sam’s stomach went queasy at the thought. ‘I didn’t think to check other county records.’
‘Why would you?’ Thorne asked kindly. ‘So, Sam, what do you want from me?’
‘What should I do? If I turn myself in, I could be charged. But maybe I should be charged.’ He shook his head, suddenly weary once more. ‘Maybe I did do it.’
Thorne shook his head. ‘You will not turn yourself in unless I tell you to do so. Are we clear? Good,’ he said when Sam nodded. ‘What about your friend’s wedding? Did you go?’
‘No. I woke up Friday morning and the wedding was the next day. I was too rattled to show. But like I told you, he wasn’t that close of a friend. I was surprised he’d even invited me.’ Sam went still as a memory bubbled up. ‘Except, he didn’t actually invite me. Not to the wedding. Or, technically, to the party.’
‘Who did?’
‘His best man, the brother of the bride. He said he was calling Dion’s high school friends and teammates. Dion and I were on the wrestling team for a few years. I’d liked him well enough back then, and I thought I should go. But when I heard where it was, I didn’t want to. The Rabbit Hole was not a place I would have chosen to go on my own.’
‘Did Dion or his best man contact you afterward to find out why you didn’t show up?’
‘No. I wasn’t sure what I’d done that night. I didn’t remember the bachelor party, but assumed I’d gotten drunk with someone. I figured the guys had eventually shown up. I guess I didn’t want to know what I’d done. So I let it go. I haven’t seen any of them since.’
Thorne’s brows lifted. ‘And none of them called to see if you were all right? No one?’
Understanding dawned and Sam let out an unsteady breath. ‘No. At the time, I thought that was another nail in my coffin, another indication that I’d done something horrible, that I’d been . . . I don’t know, shunned somehow by the group. Now, I’m seeing it differently. What if they never showed up at all? What if there was no party? If not, then the whole thing was a setup and I didn’t get drunk. I was drugged. But then I have to ask . . . why?’
‘Now you’re asking the right question. You’ve paid me a retainer, so I’ll give you my advice. You can take it or leave it. It’s up to you. One more time, because I want to be sure you’re listening to me, do not turn yourself in. Do not say to anyone that “maybe you did it”. Once you let that genie out of the bottle, it’s a hell of a chore to shove it back in.’
Hope and confidence began to push away Sam’s fear and doubt. He got a flash of who he was again. I’m a cop. Not a killer. ‘You sound like you know this from experience.’
‘I’ve been doing this job a long time. I’ve seen a lot of innocent men fuck up their lives by being too earnest. Don’t be earnest, Sam. Be smart.’
‘I will. What do you recommend I do?’
‘Start with Dion. Tell him your friend’s getting married and that you remembered that he’d gone to the Rabbit Hole for his bachelor party. Ask him what he thought of it.’
‘You don’t think he’ll admit to having a party there.’
‘Nope, because I don’t think there was a party. After you talk to Dion, go to the Rabbit Hole. Ask who was serving during that period eight years ago. You could get lucky and find a few of the staff have been there for eight years. Maybe they’ll remember if there was a party. Maybe they’ll even remember you, if something happened that night.’
‘I should have done it eight years ago.’
‘Yeah, you should have, but you didn’t, so now you’re behind the eight ball. Do you know the name of your father’s dealer?’
‘I never heard him mention his dealer’s name. One of his friends might know, but I’d have to ask around and I’m not hopeful. As far as I know, my father didn’t have any real friends. Not after the drugs, anyway.’ Sam stood up, shook Thorne’s hand. ‘I’ll call Dion tomorrow and then hit the Rabbit Hole before it opens tomorrow night.’
‘Good luck. Contact me if you need my help. And, Sam? You can trust Ruby.’
‘You think I should ask her to help me?’
‘I think she’ll get farther at the Rabbit Hole than you will. You look like a cop, even in street clothes. The sight of you will have the people you want to talk to running for cover. Ruby has a way of putting strangers at ease.’
‘Good point. Thank
you.’ Sam found Ruby waiting at their table, drumming those long red nails of hers on the dark wood. She met his eyes uncertainly.
‘I hope I did the right thing,’ she said. ‘In telling Thorne to talk to you, I mean.’
‘You did. Thank you. Thorne says I can trust you. Are you up for some adventure?’
Her dark eyes sparkled. ‘Always. Lead the way.’
Chapter Nineteen
Wight’s Landing, Maryland, Monday, March 17, 2.30 A.M.
Robinette hunkered down among the pines at the edge of Maynard’s stepfather’s property. His intel had been solid. It was amazing the things people would tell a stranger on Facebook.
There were several Facebook and webpages devoted to Sue Conroy, the mass-murdering woman who’d started her killing spree in Maynard’s stepfather’s beach house. The owners of those pages, the ‘Sue-bees’ as they’d dubbed themselves, were a talkative bunch.
They were also truly bat-shit crazy.
But helpful. Posing as a ‘Newbie Sue-bee’, Robinette had asked the more dedicated souls about the security measures St James had put in place. One of the devotees had gotten too close and tripped the motion sensor at the property’s edge. The young man had gladly shared the exact location of the line over which Robinette should not cross. Which, of course, Robinette had not.
The house was dark now. A study through his binoculars revealed no movement in the upper bedrooms. There was an SUV parked diagonally in the gravel drive leading to the house and he could make out a man sitting in the passenger seat and a woman patrolling the house’s perimeter. She was well-armed, holding an M-16 as comfortably as most women would a baby, and wore both a flak jacket and a helmet. She’d be hard to kill. Good to know.
There were no other vehicles visible around the house. Maynard must have parked whatever he was now driving in his garage. The PI wasn’t going to be able to drive that black Escalade anytime soon. The bullet-resistant windows had performed their duty, keeping his bullets away from Mazzetti’s and Maynard’s heads, but the vehicle had been trashed, nonetheless.
He set up his rifle, balancing it on its tripod, before wriggling to his stomach and testing the sight. He wasn’t the marksman Henderson was, but he could make a shot from this distance.
