“Hey, you.”
I flipped my head around to look over my shoulder. Tony was pointing at me, cutting between the gray low-back chairs with amazing agility. He looked like a football player zeroing in on his target.
Time to make a quick exit. I lunged into a full-on sprint. A booming voice echoed off the high ceilings.
I made it to the escalator and split between a couple as I raced down the steps. I jumped the last seven and stuck my landing. Glancing up, I could see Tony was at the top, barking at me, though I had no idea what he was saying. The actual words didn’t seem really necessary to know.
I dashed through the front door, cut right, ran a block, turned right, ran another block, turned left, and dropped back to first gear, blending in with the bustling crowd. I walked about a hundred feet. I glanced backward every few steps. No sign of Tony.
I made it to my car, which was parked in a twenty-four-hour lot four blocks south. I shut the door and put my hands on the cold, plastic steering wheel. There went the hope of sleeping a full night in a nice hotel room. I contemplated my next move for a few seconds; then I made a snap decision.
I was about to break my cardinal rule—thou shalt not drive at night.
15
It had taken me just under three hours to reach Bristol, which I knew only as the long-time headquarters of ESPN. A roadside sign said the population was slightly more than sixty thousand. Illuminated by only streetlights and a full moon, I could see the city was picturesque. Quaint, even.
Mitch Durant’s sprawling home was one of only two homes in the cul-de-sac. I always found it ironic that the northern states like Connecticut usually had much bigger lots than those found in Texas. “Everything’s bigger in Texas,” the saying goes. Everything but the square footage of home lots.
The Durant house was steepled in three sections, which made me wonder if they’d bought a house and continued to add on as their family and paychecks got bigger. Still, though, the home featured a tasteful front door, burgundy, and lots of windows with shutters. Not surprisingly, the man who carried something close to a perfect GPA at Cal-Berkeley had done very well for himself.
The rumbling engine of Mutt Three didn’t blend in with the surroundings. I rolled past his house and kept driving until I reached a liquor-store parking lot about a mile away. I took out my phone and let it waggle between two fingers.
I’d been debating one central question the entire trip up to Connecticut: could I trust Mitch? Back in college, the answer would have been “Yes.” Unequivocally. But time had passed; we’d lost touch, other than the cursory annual Christmas card. I recall him having at least two kids. He’d married Cassie, who, like Mitch, was two years older than Nicole and I. We’d shared some good times, though. Cassie enjoyed ribbing Mitch, much like Nicole did to me—both doing so in fun, playful ways. But we had our differences, too. Mitch and Cassie married right after school. I can still recall them talking about kids early on.
Nicole and I, on the other hand, had taken a break—she said she had to figure out who she was. She took off for Europe, but eventually we crossed paths again in Austin. We’d called it “fate” at the time. Now I wondered, if things had gone differently—if we hadn’t rekindled our relationship—if she’d still be alive.
I felt a pang of guilt, above and beyond the never-ending throb of grief. Did I feel guilty because I hadn’t been able to keep her safe? Or, was it because, maybe somewhere in my checkered life experiences, someone had come back to destroy me? Kill Nicole and pin the murder on me?
It had worked. Mostly. The only thing that was keeping my spirits up and my focus on unraveling this crazy conspiracy was the love of my little girl. If it wasn’t for Mackenzie, I wasn’t sure I’d give a damn about rotting away the rest of my life in a prison cell or underneath a bridge along I-35.
Damn, I wanted to hear Mackenzie’s voice, to see her face, to hold her in my arms. I rested my thumb on the first digit of Tito’s cell phone number, the new one I’d given him. A quick phone call—that was all I needed.
Since you have no idea if or when you’ll be able to make it back to Austin, would the call help Mackenzie or just make her upset?
“Fuck!” I banged my fist against the steering wheel and did everything I could to keep the tears at bay. I knew if I broke down, I might never pull myself back up.
Focus, dammit.
Back to Mitch and my next step. It was after eleven o’clock at night. He and his family might very well be asleep. I could find a quiet spot for my thug car, see if I could sleep a few hours, and then try him in the morning. That might be the prudent option.
But I wasn’t in a prudent mood.
I found Mitch’s number on the list from the Grand Hyatt, punched it in, and then tapped the call button. It rang only twice before a man’s voice picked up.
“Can you please put me on your ‘do not call’ list?”
“Mitch, hey. It’s Ozzie. Ozzie—”
“You don’t need to give me your last name, Ozzie. Man, it’s been forever. How are you doing?”
I paused, pondering which answer would work best for the moment. “Okay. Hey, I’m actually in town.”
“You’re in Bristol, Connecticut? Wow. Did you just get a job with ESPN or something?” He chuckled. He had a hearty laugh, one that would draw you to him at a social gathering.
“I wish,” I said, attempting not to go straight to my doom-and-gloom story. “Sorry for calling so late. I know you have kids.”
“Oh, no worries. I’m actually working in my office, which is tucked away in a small guesthouse behind our home.”
“Mr. Big Bucks, huh?” I said, keeping it light.
“Hey, I’ve got a lot mouths to feed. Two kids, Cassie…oh, plus we have two dogs and a cat.”
Baxter and Rainbow. Another reminder of the life I’d left behind.
“What about you and Nicole? Any kids on the way? She didn’t mention anything when we spoke at the conference, but maybe she was keeping it a secret. Then again, her figure didn’t look like she was with child.”
A click in my throat. So, he had spoken to Nicole. She’d never mentioned that to me. I could feel my whole body tense up.
“No secrets on this end,” I said, realizing the irony behind the statement right after I’d said it. “Hey, I was wondering if you wanted to get together over a cup of coffee and talk old times.”
“Sure thing, pal. How long are you in town?”
“Uh…” Too much uncertainty, Oz. “I think my itinerary says three days.”
“Well, let me see here. Oh, wow, my schedule looks crazy the rest of this week.”
Was he making that up? It sounded like he was making that up. Am I making something out of nothing? Paranoia was creeping in.
“How about now?” I asked.
“Now?”
“Yeah, I mean, unless Cassie needs you to help with a feeding.”
“Our youngest just started sleeping through the night in the last month. It’s been awesome.” He paused a moment. “Hell, I need a break from working. Why not? I’d ask you over, but we might have to be too quiet, and we sure as hell don’t want to draw the wrath of Cassie. When midnight hits, she turns into a different woman.”
I wasn’t sure what to say, so I acted like I didn’t hear that last part. “Okay, how about at the Denny’s I saw driving into town?”
We agreed to meet in fifteen minutes.
16
Khakis, penny loafers, and a blue Oxford shirt even at this late hour. I could hardly believe my eyes as I watched Mitch walk through the parking lot and through the front door of Denny’s. He saw me waving from a booth, and he walked over. As I stood up, reached out my hand, his pace slowed dramatically, his eyes narrowing into tiny slits.
“What happened to you?” he asked, stepping up to the table while pointing at my hair.
I’d forgotten about the hair. “Oh, right. Just going for a new look. You know, they say a little change is good.”
&
nbsp; A slow nod.
I wasn’t sure how to view Mitch at this point. Ally or suspect? I just knew that before everything that had happened recently, I would have considered Mitch one of my loyal friends, even if we hadn’t seen each other in years. For now, I’d have to tread lightly through our conversation. If indeed he was behind Nicole’s murder—just thinking it sounded utterly ridiculous—then I’d have to figure out his motivation.
We shook hands, which led to a bro-hug. His grip was firm. He looked to be in decent shape.
“Wow, Oz, this is such a cool deal. You look great, even with the new hair color and style. Nicole said as much,” he said, as he slipped into the booth.
Just like on the phone, he was acting as though he had no knowledge of Nicole’s death.
Our waitress arrived before I could comment, and we both asked for coffee and water. I also ordered some fries. As she took our order, my eyes were drawn to a TV screen perched above the register near the front. It appeared to be tuned to a national news station. I saw an anchor and a boxed picture of something over his shoulder. It wasn’t my mug shot, which I viewed as good news, but it reminded me that, in a modern society, information traveled at lightning speed. Everyone who owned a phone was, in essence, a correspondent, and something could be shared once and go viral in a matter of minutes.
Had anyone taken my picture or captured me on video as I was running out of the Grand Hyatt? What about the cops in rural Tennessee? Maybe they had a dashcam that had picked up an image of me or my car. And then there was the original issue of being a fugitive. Most of law enforcement, though, were still searching for Ozzie Novak, a man with wavy, blond hair. Not David Lee, a man with a brown-colored crew cut. But the bottom line was, being out in public like this, even at a late hour with only a handful of other patrons in the restaurant, gave me a feeling of unease.
“Something got your attention on the TV?” Mitch said, flipping his head around briefly.
“Just wandering eyes. I’m a bit tired after the drive,” I said, feigning a yawn.
“So you never told me why a lawyer from Austin, Texas, is in Bristol, Connecticut.”
I took in a full breath and opened my lips.
“Don’t tell me—you’re representing someone who’s suing ESPN,” he said, pointing a finger at me. He used to do that all the time. Pointing a finger like it was a toy gun. It was always done with a smirk, like now.
“ESPN is owned by Disney, the Mickey Mouse company based in California. Why would I be here?”
“Always the lawyer, Oz.”
I forced a chuckle. “You know me.”
“Okay, it’s obvious you’re just here on lawyer business, right? You don’t have to give me all the boring lawyer details.”
“It’s certainly not pleasure,” I said. “But it didn’t even hit me until I landed at La Guardia that you and Cassie lived up this way. So, I took a chance.”
“Kind of lucky you called so late at night. My new business has me going nonstop every day of the week. I got behind ever since I attended the IMP conference.”
Perfect segue. I opened my mouth as the waitress arrived with two coffees, lots of creamer containers, two waters, and a plate of fries. I ate two of the fries and told Mitch to help himself.
“No, but thanks. Got to watch what I eat these days. Now that I run my own business, I’ve got to be proactive with my health, and that starts with knocking out the fried foods.”
I admired his discipline. One day, maybe my life would get back on track to where I could worry about such mundane things like good health. Good grief.
“So, the conference in New York. It put you behind on your work, you said, but did you find it very valuable?”
“Mostly. I wish I could have cloned myself. But it’s always good to expose yourself to new ideas in your profession. Plus, networking never gets old. Since I run a consulting business, my clients can be actual marketing professionals from various companies.” He crossed his legs, tugged at the crease on his trousers—was he anal or what?—and picked up his mug of coffee. I nodded. “Did you get any good leads?”
“Let’s just say I exchanged about two dozen business cards, and since then, I’ve already had emails from five of those people, asking to meet with me. So, like I said, I need a clone.” He paused and sipped his coffee; he’d added no sugar or cream, of course. “Too bad Nicole isn’t available to help me.”
A jolt in my chest. I kept my cool, though. “Yep, she’s pretty busy with her own job.”
“Did she talk to you about it? I mean, I didn’t flat-out offer her a job, but I certainly hinted at it. Everyone works in a virtual environment these days. She might have to do a little travel, but it could be good for someone who needs to work flexible hours.”
Did he realize he was actually pitching me? “Yeah, she mentioned it, but she just laughed.” For now, I had to act like everything was normal, although it felt like a hole was being drilled through my stomach lining. I ate a couple of fries and sipped my calorie-laden coffee.
“So, are you and Nicole thinking about kids?” he asked.
“Yeah, we’re thinking about it.” I wasn’t about to share anything about Mackenzie. Too much detail for what I was trying to accomplish.
“Well, think harder,” he said, lifting his water as if he were either giving me a toast or some sage advice. “I’m telling you; it’s a complete beating.”
I waited for the “Oh, I’m just kidding” comment, or “It’s tough work, but, man, they’ve been the best parts of my life.” It didn’t come.
I knew how I felt about Mackenzie, about the authentic change she’d made to my mental makeup, to my purpose in life. And I hadn’t even known she existed until recently. The idea of holding a baby made from the love between me and Nicole was…
I swallowed back a lump in my throat. “I think kids are pretty cool.”
“You know what it’s like to not get any sleep for a month straight?”
I wasn’t sure what to say, so I said nothing.
“See?” He winked and nodded. “It’s not just about going to baseball games and blowing out candles on birthdays and them listening to all of your wisdom. That never happens. Never.”
Mitch should speak at high schools. Might be the best form of birth control out there.
“Who knows when we’ll give it a start,” I said, looking off, ready to leave this topic.
“Well,” he said, glancing at the back end of the waitress as she walked by, “just know that if you’re not interested in Nicole in that way, there are plenty of people ready to jump in and take your spot.”
I almost came out of my seat. Instead, coffee went down my windpipe, and I started coughing spastically.
“Oz, you okay? Need me to do the Heimlich on you?” He laughed.
I turned away from the table. I could feel my face go flush, and it wasn’t just from the coughing fit.
It took me a few minutes, but I finally got my breathing under control. I flipped around and faced Mitch.
He said, “Didn’t know my words would get you all out of whack. Sorry, Oz.”
“I’m not out of whack.” I could feel my intensity on the rise. I pushed out another breath. Remember your purpose. “You haven’t told me how Cassie is doing. I’m sure she’s busy with the kids and all, but anything else going on in her life?”
He stared at me an extra second. “Hey, I need to run to the restroom.”
He didn’t waste any time before sliding out of the booth and walking to the back.
Hmm. I wasn’t sure what to make of Mitch. He seemed more jaded than I recalled, certainly about kids. And his comment about Nicole…was that a personal feeling of his, or had someone at the conference made it known they were interested in her? Even if I could read his thoughts, would it be that much of a surprise to learn that another man found Nicole attractive? That was as obvious as my crew cut. It would take a serious obsession—and one that had probably been brewing longer than a recent marketing c
onference—to motivate someone to murder another person. Add in the setup component of the crime, and my whole line of questioning seemed far-fetched.
Then again…
I was so emotionally drained it was difficult to trust my own instincts. I could feel this inability to ground my thoughts. I felt like the whirring blade of a helicopter just after someone had removed the single screw holding it in place. That anchor, of course, was Nicole. Sure, we’d had our moments of separation over the last few months, but death was never part of the equation. Death was permanent. Death was more of a forever than love ever could be.
That phrase stuck with me, replaying in my mind again. Death is more of a forever than love ever could be. I felt like I’d just stabbed myself with a rusty shiv.
I forced my eyes up to the TV, anything to shift my thoughts elsewhere. I grabbed a couple of fries and saw the news anchor go to a live shot of another reporter standing outside somewhere, holding a microphone. A second later, the fries shot to the back of my throat.
Detective Shane Valentine from the APD was on the TV screen.
17
I tossed my napkin behind me and walked to the front of the restaurant, my eyes glued to the TV screen. It was muted, but captions scrolled across the bottom. I shifted between the words and Valentine’s hook nose.
I could read his lips—an old trick I’d learned from not having adequate hearing—but I read the text to ensure I didn’t miss anything: “Yes, Mr. Novak’s attorney had agreed that Mr. Novak would turn himself in. We were going to book him on a charge of conspiracy to commit murder.”
My thumping heart almost broke through my rib cage. A quick glance around. No sign of Mitch. Back to the TV, and I did some speed-reading to catch up. Valentine said, “He may or may not be armed. Given the crime he allegedly committed, he is considered dangerous, and anyone who sees this man should contact authorities. Do not try to approach him.”
My jaw dropped open. After a couple of seconds, I realized I wasn’t breathing.
ON The Run (An Ozzie Novak Thriller, Book 6) (Redemption Thriller Series 18) Page 8
