by Rebecca York
Then he practically shouted into the phone. “Sara, are you there? Sara? Pick up, dammit.”
When she answered, he felt the breath whoosh out of his lungs.
“Alex, what’s wrong? Where are you?”
The sound of her voice made his throat clog. It was several seconds before he could say, “I ran into a little problem. I’m at the state police barracks.”
When he heard her indrawn breath, he closed his eyes, although the maneuver only gave him the illusion of privacy.
“What happened?” she asked.
“I’ll give you the condensed version. That call I got this morning—I thought it was from Emmett Bandy. At least it sounded like Bandy. When I got to his office, he was sitting at his desk with a bullet through his brain.”
She gasped, but he went on quickly. “Hempstead walked in on me with my gun drawn.”
“Oh God, Alex. What’s going to happen?”
She sounded scared. She sounded genuinely concerned for him, which made him answer in a clipped voice, “I’m under arrest for Bandy’s murder.”
There was a moment of silence during which he died a thousand deaths.
Then she said quietly, “They must know you didn’t do it.”
“It would have been better if I hadn’t been holding a gun.”
“Yes,” she murmured, then, “What can I do to help you?”
As it had with Lucas, the offer of support buoyed him. “My firm, Randolph Security, is sending a lawyer down from Baltimore. Dan Cassidy. He knows the ropes.”
“Okay. Good.”
“Sara, nothing’s changed since what happened last night,” he said cautiously, not wanting to say too much since she’d told him specifically that she didn’t want to get the police involved after she’d been attacked.
“But—”
“I’m in the middle of the police station.”
“All right, I understand.”
“Probably it would be a good idea for you to go to your father’s.” His hand clenched the receiver. He’d taken her home to keep her safe and he’d made a mess of that particular job. Just as he’d made a mess of the scene at Bandy’s.
“Can…I bring you anything?”
“No!” he said sharply, thinking that the last thing he wanted was for her to see him behind bars. “Dan will take care of things. I’ll let you know when I’m out of here.”
“When will that be?”
He sighed. “I don’t know.” He didn’t add that if his luck went the wrong way, he could be here for months.
SARA SAT HUDDLED in Alex’s office. She’d been in the kitchen making coffee, thinking he’d be back soon. When the phone rang, she hadn’t been sure whether it was all right to answer it. Then she’d heard his voice shouting at her, and she’d snatched up the receiver. What he’d told her had been like getting hit with a bucket of freezing water.
Alex. In jail. Arrested for murder.
He’d hung up, leaving her numb and disoriented. Finally, she roused herself, but it was still difficult to believe what he had said. When he’d left the house a few hours ago, although he hadn’t said it, she was sure that he was going out to take care of an emergency. Apparently he’d walked into a situation he wasn’t prepared for.
Alex had told her not to come down to the police barracks, but she couldn’t just sit here doing nothing. Glancing at the clock, she saw it was before eight, which meant that the network talk shows would still be on. She knew the segments were interspersed with local newscasts and wondered if she could get more details of the arrest.
The problem was, she couldn’t find a television on the ground floor. She climbed the steps to the second story, then hesitated in the hall outside his bedroom, where she spied a small TV on the dresser. It felt like an invasion of Alex’s privacy to step into his room.
It was neat. There were no personal possessions in evidence, no pictures, knicknacks. The bedside table was stacked with books, however. Mostly nonfiction: true crime, military history, a new biography of Dwight Eisenhower.
Her eyes slid to the bed. The sheets were tangled, suggesting that he hadn’t slept well. Neither had she.
She turned on the television and found the Salisbury channel, which was affiliated with one of the major networks. Standing with her arms clutching her shoulders, she waited for the commercials to finish. She sat on the edge of the bed, unconsciously smoothing her hand over the spread. Then the network broke for a local segment.
“This just in,” the blond newscaster reported in a breathy voice. “An employee of a Baltimore security firm has been arrested in connection with a homicide in downtown St. Stephens.”
Sara’s eyes remained glued to the television screen. She saw the exterior of Emmett Bandy’s office, state police cars with flashing lights, yellow crime-scene tape.
“Alex Shane, apparently on assignment in St. Stephens, was arrested early this morning in the office of real estate owner Emmett Bandy. Although details are still sketchy, it is reported that the unarmed Bandy had been shot. Shane was apprehended still holding his weapon.”
Sara made a small sound of protest. She might be unsure of her own relationship with Alex. She might be upset that he still didn’t trust her. But she knew with bone-deep conviction that he hadn’t killed Emmett Bandy in cold blood.
As she watched, she caught a picture of Clark Hempstead talking to several uniformed officers. But he waved away a reporter who approached him with a microphone.
In the background, she could see that a small group of rubberneckers had gathered. She recognized a number of the locals, including Dana Eustice, Lee Tillman’s girlfriend. That was interesting. Had she simply happened along, or did she know something about Lee?
That line of speculation was cut off when Sara spotted several men standing apart from the others. She sucked in a sharp breath as she stared at their plaid shirts, their baseball caps. It was them! The guys who had been following her around. She had never gotten a good look at them before, but here they were, right on television for her inspection.
She studied their faces, thinking that she didn’t recognize anybody. Then one of them turned to say something to his friends, and she froze.
For a moment she had thought it was Alex. Then she focused on his features and saw that it was just someone who looked very similar.
Sara felt gooseflesh rise on her neck as she remembered Alex telling her about his brother. She stared at the group on the TV, thinking how she’d told Alex about these men—and now she was wondering if his brother was one of them.
“SO NOW THAT YOU understand your rights, let’s go over the events of the morning again,” said Detective Jerry Plymouth, the guy who had been assigned to this case.
“Okay,” Alex agreed. He was sitting in a small, windowless room with gray walls and a battered metal table. Dan Cassidy sat next to him, wearing a crisp blue suit that looked as if it had just come off the rack.
A rumpled-looking Detective Plymouth was on the other side of the table. As Alex sized up the opposition, he felt himself taking control of the situation.
Plymouth was young, and his experience was limited to one of Maryland’s rural counties. Alex had five years’ experience in detective work in a county with a large metropolitan area. He’d carried out his share of interrogations, and now that the tables were turned on him, he knew what to do and say—and what to avoid.
He eyed the thick folder Plymouth had carried into the interrogation room. Nice prop, he thought, since he knew they didn’t have much of a case against him. Only his inconvenient presence at the scene of the crime—with his weapon drawn.
He sat up straight in his chair, made direct eye contact with the detective and said, “I didn’t kill anybody. And you can use all the brilliant ploys on me you like, but you’re not going to get me to admit to a crime I didn’t commit.”
Plymouth shifted in his chair. “So tell me in your own words what happened this morning in Emmett Bandy’s office.”
�
��All right,” Alex agreed, starting back over the account he’d already given, sticking to the facts. He began with some background on why he’d come to St. Stephens—to find out who was threatening Lee Tillman. Then he went on to the man’s disappearance, congratulating himself that he’d consulted Chief Hempstead about it right off the bat. Hempstead could back him up on that. Unless Hempstead was playing dirty pool, which he hoped was beneath the chief’s dignity.
Maybe some of what he was thinking flashed in his eyes, because Plymouth was suddenly alert.
Forcing himself back to the facts, he explained about Bandy’s frantic call and how he’d gone down to the real estate office expecting trouble. Which was why he’d had his gun drawn.
Then he went on to repeat what he’d told Hempstead, which was the same thing he’d said in his initial interview.
“I know your preliminary test for powder burns was negative,” he said. “I know the more extensive tests will come out the same way. I know I didn’t fire my gun. Your tests will show that. And I know the bullet that exited Bandy’s skull and ended up in the door frame is not from my weapon.”
When Plymouth tried to take back control of the interrogation, Alex sat calmly in his chair and let him use the techniques that had probably worked on scores of criminals.
After Plymouth had given it his best shot, Alex folded his arms and said, “Your other problem is that you don’t have a motive. I have no reason to kill Emmett Bandy. He called me for help. You’ll find a record of that call in the phone company log. I didn’t call him. He contacted me. But I think now that it was the killer imitating Bandy’s voice.
“The call was made from Bandy’s cell phone. You’ll also find a record of another call made to Chief Hempstead, probably from a pay phone, probably right after I arrived at Bandy’s office. Whoever it was wanted to make sure Hempstead would catch me there. So why don’t you stop wasting your time trying to pin a murder on me that I didn’t commit and start looking for the real killer?”
At that point, Dan Cassidy took over. “My client has been completely cooperative with you. He’s got no motive for having murdered Emmett Bandy. And you won’t find any evidence connecting him to the crime—other than that he was unfortunate enough to be on the scene because he was lured there.”
“With a gun in his hand,” Plymouth reminded everyone in the small, hot room.
“But not the murder weapon,” Cassidy retorted. “A gun he brought along because he was called by a man who was fearful and begging for protection. I think it can be established pretty quickly that the bullet didn’t come from his Sig. I was a prosecutor in this state for eighteen years, and I know damn well what you need to make a case. You don’t have one.”
As he listened to his lawyer’s speech, taking in the quiet conviction in Dan’s voice, Alex hoped he was projecting a calm exterior, even though his insides were twisting razor wire. He might have talked his own good game with Plymouth, but he understood that he’d gotten himself into a mess. He hadn’t prayed in years, but now he said a silent prayer that Dan could get him out of it.
THE CRUNCH OF TIRES on the gravel driveway sent Sara rushing to the window. Although Alex had told her to go to her father’s hours ago, she was still here, hoping that somehow he’d be released.
The man who’d brought his vehicle to a stop beside hers wasn’t Alex, and she knew that she’d put herself in serious jeopardy by staying here.
Her heart started to pound as the guy opened the door of his SUV and climbed out. There was no use pretending she wasn’t home. Men had been following her around. They knew her car, and it was in the driveway.
Worse, if they’d had the news on today, they knew that Alex wasn’t home.
“Stupid. Stupid,” she muttered as she darted down the hall to the office where she’d left the gun.
She was back at the front door in seconds, standing to the side in case the man coming up the porch steps started shooting through the wood panels.
Her breath rapid and shallow, she watched him through the crack where she’d pulled the curtains aside. He was holding a briefcase instead of a gun. A good sign.
He knocked on the door, then called out, “Ms. Delaney.”
“Who is it?”
“Dan Cassidy, Alex’s lawyer.”
“Can you show me some identification?” she asked.
Through the crack in the curtains, she saw him reach into his back pocket and pull out his wallet. When he held it toward the window where she was peeking out, she felt a mixture of relief and chagrin.
She unbolted the door and swung it open. Standing face-to-face with the man was reassuring. He looked solid. He looked as if he knew what he was doing.
And when he stepped into the hall and closed the door behind him, he acted as if he owned the place.
“I thought Alex told you to go to your father’s,” he said as he marched into the living room and settled himself in an easy chair.
She took the couch opposite him. “I couldn’t leave. I kept hoping he’d come back.”
“Well, I’m working on that.”
“What are his chances?”
“The evidence against him won’t hold up. It’s all a matter of how quickly I can get them to perform the necessary tests.” He gave her an assessing look. “You didn’t ask if I thought he was guilty.”
“I know he’s not.”
“How?”
“He wouldn’t shoot anyone in cold blood.”
“You’re sure of that?”
“Very sure.”
He nodded. “Yeah, anybody who knows Alex knows what kind of man he is. Unfortunately, he got into a couple of scrapes with the police when he was a teenager.”
“I thought a juvenile record was sealed.”
“To the general public. Not to the police.”
“Oh.”
Cassidy had relaxed somewhat, but he still seemed to be considering what he wanted to say next. “How well do you know Alex?” he asked.
She looked down at her hands, then up again. “We knew each other slightly as teenagers,” she answered, giving this man information that she hadn’t even been willing to share with Alex. “But we hadn’t been in contact in years. Then we ran into each other again because he’s investigating Lee Tillman’s disappearance. Or whatever it is. Alex thinks I’m involved somehow.”
She was aware of the man across from her listening carefully, weighing her words, judging her veracity.
“Are you?” he asked quietly.
“Not in the way he thinks! I’m Lee’s accountant. He and I are friendly, but I don’t have any idea what happened to him. Probably Alex told you that men have been following me around, that somebody tried to run me down. And somebody broke into my house.”
He nodded.
“So I may be involved in some way that I don’t understand, or it may have to do with my father. He’s gotten some people angry recently.” She stopped, sighed. “I just wish Alex had a little more faith in me, that he wouldn’t jump to incriminating conclusions.”
Cassidy shifted in his seat. After several moments of silence, he said, “Alex has been through a rough time lately. It hasn’t exactly reinforced his faith in human nature.”
The statement was startling—for more than one reason. Somehow she’d assumed that Alex Shane had made it. Or put another way, that he had everything he wanted out of life. Apparently it wasn’t true. “When you say a rough time, you’re not just talking about his getting arrested. You mean before that?” she pressed.
He sighed. “Probably I shouldn’t have said anything.”
“Yes, but you did say something. Now you have to explain. Please. I care about him,” she said, admitting her feelings for the first time. “I want to understand him better.”
Dan’s gaze turned inward, then he finally said, “He wouldn’t like to know I was talking about his personal business.”
“Please. I need to know. He’s been so closed up, so cautious. I need to understand why,” sh
e pressed, feeling her own edge of desperation. She wasn’t usually a pushy person, but she ached to know what had happened to Alex Shane. And maybe her emotions showed on her face.
Dan knit his fingers together. “He caught his wife with another man.”
She sucked in a startled breath. Then asked, “He’s married?”
“He’s divorced now. I think he accepted the assignment down here in St. Stephens partly to get away from the bad memories.”
She absorbed that information, thinking it went a long way toward explaining where Alex was coming from.
Dan had said that Alex had lost his faith in human nature. Probably that applied most directly to the female portion of the population.
She mulled that over, watching Dan watch her.
“That must have been pretty rough for him,” she murmured.
“Yeah. And now that I’ve spilled the beans, you probably don’t want to let him know. I’m guessing it would be better for him to tell you about it himself—if he tells you at all.”
“Right.”
“So maybe I haven’t done you any favors.”
“We’ll see,” was all she could answer.
Chapter Eight
There were advantages and disadvantages to knowing how the system worked. Alex knew that prisoners being held on felony charges had to be arraigned within forty-eight hours. And he expected to be formally charged because Dan Cassidy, who had stayed in town since first coming down from Baltimore, had told him that the police didn’t have any other suspects.
He’d digested that information, along with the facts of life in the county lockup. As a law enforcement officer, he’d known on an intellectual level that jail was dehumanizing. He hadn’t realized just how dehumanizing until he’d lived through the experience for two days—being told what to wear, when to get up, when to go to bed and when he could shower.
If he’d shown any sign of weakness, the other prisoners might have made things even worse for him. But he projected a tough-guy exterior that said, “Mess with me, and you’ll be damn sorry.” The hard-assed act had been as much for himself as for the men locked up with him. He had to stay tight and numb to keep some hold on sanity. Had to function at a minimal level or start acting out his anger and despair.
