Authors: Mariah Stewart
Tags: #Mystery & Detective, #General, #Romance, #Fiction, #Women Sleuths, #Romantic suspense fiction, #Short Stories (Single Author), #Serial murders, #Antique dealers, #Police chiefs
Dead Certain (26 page)
“You still talk to your dad?”
“Sometimes. Not the way I wish I could talk to him, or the way I wish I could talk to my mother, though.” She brushed away the tears. “I don’t know why I’m telling you this. I hadn’t planned on talking about me.”
“I’m glad you did.” He reached out and took her by the wrist, pulled her into his lap and just held her.
“Well, this is pretty pathetic, wouldn’t you say?” she tried to joke. “Talk about your dysfunctional families. There’s not one solid parent figure between the two of us.”
“And yet we’re both pretty solid, responsible people,” he told her. “How do you suppose that happened?”
“Some people just have something inside. You just want to be better than what you could have been.”
“That might be it.” He held on to her, feeling her soft breath against his throat.
“Do you think it’s possible to overcome all that, to move beyond it all and be truly happy, to fall in love?”
He didn’t respond at first. Then finally his fingers tightened on hers, and he said, “I think it’s not only possible, I think it’s necessary. I think in the end, we all want to believe the future will be better than the past. You just have to be willing to take a chance, you know? Roll the dice and go with it.”
They sat in silence for a very long time.
Finally, she pushed herself up wearily and said, “I’m falling asleep. I have to get home.”
“I think you’re too tired to drive,” he said, his lips brushing the side of her face. “I think you should stay here.”
“Oh, let me guess.” She grinned, sitting up and making a point out of looking around the sparsely furnished house. “His and hers sleeping bags here at Camp Mercer?”
“Hey, I have a bed.” He tried to look wounded.
“Right. One of those inflatable mattress things, I’ll bet. Now, do you have the kind you blow up with a bicycle pump, or the kind that inflates itself?”
“Why don’t you come on upstairs and find out?” With one motion, he picked her up, rose from the chair, and swung her over his shoulder.
“Looks like I’m about to do just that . . .” She laughed as he headed toward the steps.
Amanda closed her eyes and held on to the moment. Maybe, just maybe, Sean was right. Maybe the future could be better than the past.
She was more than willing to roll the dice.
Vince Giordano sat on the edge of the hard wooden seat, his hands cuffed behind him, and looked around the infirmary where he was about to have his intake physical. He had spent an hour with his lawyer that morning, then spent the rest of the day facing reality.
This time, there would be no reprieve.
No one was coming to step forward with proof that a member of the law enforcement team that brought him in had planted evidence or had lied in their report. After all, half the Broeder police department had been at Crosby’s house—plus that hot FBI agent—when he’d been taken down.
Not even a chance of crying police brutality. He didn’t have a mark on him. They’d barely touched him.
Well, that was that. He’d had a good run, hadn’t he? And he’d come
this close
to his final target. He wondered if Channing had felt this same sense of letdown when he’d realized that that last target had eluded him.
And he wondered if Archer Lowell would do even as well, if he’d be equal to the task. He wondered if Archer Lowell would even try.
Well, shit, this was all his idea. He damn well better try. He damn well better
succeed.
He owes Curtis Channing. He owes
me. . . .
It occurred to Vince that Lowell should be getting out pretty soon. His sentence must be nearly up by now.
He damn well better keep the trust.
Vince grew agitated just thinking about all that Channing had done for Vince, all that Vince had done for Lowell.
Well, there was nothing he could do about it now. He was in High Meadow, and was going to stay in High Meadow for the rest of his natural life. Unless, of course, he got the death penalty. Pennsylvania was, after all, a death penalty state, wasn’t it?
Soon Lowell would be out, and Vince would bet every last dollar he had stashed away in the wall of the old barn that Lowell was not going to give a second thought to him or to Channing once he walked out of here.
Sure. His dirty work had already been done for him. What did he care about honoring Channing’s memory by taking care of his business? What did he care about keeping a sacred promise?
Damn, but Vince was really beginning to steam.
A shadow passed the door, then paused.
“Vince? That you? Vince Giordano?” A dark head poked through the doorway.
“Who’s that?” Vince looked up and recognized the man who had at one time occupied the cell next to his. “Hey, Burt-man. How’s it going, man?”
“Goin’ good.” The head bobbed up and down. “Couldn’t be better. I’m on my way outta here. I am done with this place, man.”
“Your time is up?”
“As of today. Honest to God, there were times I thought this day would never come.”
“That’s good, man. I’m glad for you. Got a whole life out there.”
Burt laughed ruefully. “Yeah, well, some life. I been in here nearly thirteen years. My wife divorced me while I was in here, remarried, moved someplace, no one told me where. Took my kids. I got no job and a zilch-o chance of finding one, no education, no money. But at least I will be out there.” He paused and looked past Vince. “Out there and outta here.”
“So you got no plans . . . ?”
“Only plans I got are for a few cold beers and a few hot women.” He shrugged. “After that, who knows.”
“Burt,” a voice from the hall called out. “Get back in here. You shouldn’t be talking to him. He’s going into isolation.”
“What are you gonna do to me, Ralphie boy? Suspend my exercise privileges? I ain’t hurting no one.” He turned back to Vince. “Just waiting for the nurse to come back and sign my clearance, and then I’m hitting the first bar I come to. I been dreaming about that beer for weeks now.”
He started to move back out the door. “Well, good seeing you, Vince. Maybe we’ll run into each other one of these days, out there.”
“There ain’t gonna be no ‘out there’ for me.” Vince shook his head.
“Not this time, eh?”
“I’m afraid my luck has run out.”
“Yeah, well. Sorry to hear that, you know? You take care, Vince.”
“Burt-man.”
The man turned and looked back over his shoulder.
“You always impressed me as being a stand-up guy.”
“Thanks, Vince. I appreciate that.”
“You a guy who understands what honor among thieves means, Burt-man?”
“Hey, I been in here a long time, man. I know what it means to be able to trust someone to watch your back. That what you’re talking about?”
“Yeah. That’s what I meant.” Vince had to think this through quickly. There was little time to make a decision. “Listen, I’m wondering if you’d do something for me when you get out there.”
“What’s that?” Burt-man’s eyes narrowed.
Vince’s voice dropped. “I’ll make it worth your while.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, I can tell you where I have cash—a whole lot of cash—stashed on the outside. Seems to me that a fellow like you, with no obvious means of support, might be able to use that cash. I’ll never get to spend it.” He laughed ruefully. “My lawyer has already told me that I don’t have a snowball’s chance in hell to get off this time, so I might as well fire him and get the court to appoint a lawyer for me. I’d rather see that money go to you than to have it found someday by some kids.”
“What would I have to do?” Burt’s sharp eyes sparked with interest.
“There’s someone who has a job to do for me out there. I just want you to make sure he does it.”
Burt came back into the room. “That’s all I have to do? Make sure someone does a job for you?”
“That’s all.”
“Burt! Come on, man, get outta there. You’re gonna get me in trouble,” the guard called from the doorway.
“Get lost, Ralphie. I’ll be along in a minute.” Burt turned back to Giordano and lowered his voice. “And you’ll tell me where this money is stashed if I just keep an eye on someone for you?”
“It’s all for you, Burt-man. No one else knows it’s out there. You just gotta keep this guy honest. Make sure he does what he’s supposed to do. It’s important to me, Burt-man. It’s real important to me.”
“In that case, I’m all ears, Vince.” Burt-man knelt on one knee and leaned closer. “Tell me more. Tell me everything. . . .”
Also by Mariah Stewart:
DEAD WRONG
UNTIL DARK
THE PRESIDENT’S DAUGHTER
M
ercer touched the goblet and shook his head. “Crazy, isn’t it, what some people will kill for?”
It took a long moment for his words to sink in.
“Kill for?” Amanda straightened up slowly, her hands gripping the edge of the counter. “You think someone killed Derek for this?”
“Someone might have.” He gazed down at her, his expression unreadable. “Let’s start with you, Ms. Crosby.”
“Me?”
“You have to admit, you make a really good suspect.” His dark eyes studied her carefully.
“Mr. England just spent your cash cushion on a piece of stolen pottery that you’re going to have to send back, which puts you out a great deal of money.”
“That’s absurd.”
“And then there’s this little matter. . . .”
From his pocket he withdrew a cell phone. Amanda recognized it as Derek’s. Mercer scrolled down the screen, then pushed a button. He needn’t have bothered. Amanda knew full well what the message was.
“Derek, you are so dead. If you have any sense at all, you’ll stay in Italy, because the minute I see you, I am going to kill you.”
Mercer turned off the phone. “Do I need to play it again?”
Read on for an exciting preview of
DEAD WRONG
by Mariah Stewart
Published by Ballantine Books
in June 2004.
Oh, sure, I heard the little one crying. And the middle one, too. Only one I never heard was the older one, the boy. They ain’t lived here long—maybe a month or so. I never saw much of them. Oh, once in a while, I’d pass the boy on the steps. He never had much to say. No, never saw the mother bring men home. Never saw her much at all, though—don’t know when she came or went. Heard her sometimes, though. God knows she was loud enough, screaming at them kids the way she done. No, don’t know what she was doin’ to ’em to make ’em cry like that. No, never saw no social worker come around. Don’t know if the kids went to school.
Did I what? No, never called nobody about it. Wasn’t none of my business, what went on over there. Hey, I got troubles of my own. . . .
Mara Douglas rubbed her temples with the tips of her fingers, an unconscious gesture she made when steeped in thought or deeply upset. Reading through the notes she’d taken while interviewing the elderly, toothless, across-the-hall neighbor of the Feehan family, she was at once immersed in the children’s situation and sick to her stomach. The refrain was all too familiar. The neighbors heard, the neighbors turned a deaf ear rather than get involved. It was none of their business what a woman did to her children, none of their business if the kids had fallen through all the cracks. In neighborhoods as poor as this, all the tenants seemed to live in their own hell. Who could worry about someone else’s?
Mara rested her elbow on the edge of the dining room table, her chin in the palm of her hand, and marveled how a child could survive such neglect and abuse and so often still defend the parent who had inflicted the physical and emotional pain.
Time after time, case after case, she’d seen the bond between parent and child tested, stretched to the very limit. Sometimes even years of the worst kind of abuse and neglect failed to fray that connection.
She turned her attention back to the case she was working on now. The mother’s rights were being challenged by the paternal grandparents, who’d had custody of the three children—ages four, seven, and nine—for the past seven months. Mara was the court-appointed advocate for the children, the one who would speak on their behalf at all legal proceedings, the one whose primary interest—whose only interest—was the best interests of the children.
As their champion, Mara spent many hours reviewing the files provided by the social workers from the county Children and Youth Services department and medical reports from their physicians, and still more hours interviewing the social workers themselves, along with neighbors and teachers, emergency room personnel, family members, and family friends. All in an effort to determine what was best for the children, where their needs—all their needs—might best be met, and by whom.
Mara approached every case as a sacred trust, an opportunity to stand for that child as she would stand for her own. Tomorrow she would do exactly that, when she presented her report and her testimony to the judge who would determine whether Kelly Feehan’s parental rights should be terminated and custody of her three children awarded to their deceased father’s parents. It probably wouldn’t be too tough a call.
Kelly, an admitted prostitute and heroin addict, had watched her world begin to close in on her after her fifth arrest for solicitation. Her nine-year-old had stayed home from school to take care of his siblings until Kelly could make bail. Unfortunately for Kelly, her former in-laws, who had been searching for the children for months while their mother had moved them from one low-rent dive to another, had finally tracked them down. The Feehans had called the police. Their next move had been to take temporary custody of the children, who were found bruised, battered, and badly malnourished.
Over time, it became apparent that Kelly wasn’t doing much to rehabilitate herself. She’d shown up high on two of her last three visitation days, and the grandparents had promptly filed a petition to terminate Kelly’s parental rights permanently. Total termination of parental rights was a drastic step, one never made lightly nor without a certain amount of angst and soul searching.