A Gift of Time (The Nine Minutes Trilogy Book 3) (8 page)

Less than
twenty minutes later, he stood in the bathroom that Jason and Mimi shared and
stared at the bathroom counter. A cup held a green toothbrush. That was most
likely Jason’s. Where was Mimi’s? He quickly spotted it. A bright pink
toothbrush off to the side, almost hidden completely by a carelessly tossed
hand towel. He carefully placed it in the clear plastic bag and promptly headed
downstairs and out to his car.

Less than
thirty minutes later, he pulled into the parking lot of a grocery store. He
spotted his friend, Dale, standing next to an SUV with a surfboard strapped to
the roof.

“Hey, man,
long time no see. How’ve you been, Tom?” Dale asked as Tommy got out of the
car.

Tommy smiled
at his old friend and gave him a quick man hug with the obligatory slap on the
back.

“It’s been
too long, Dale. Things have been good. How ’bout you?”

Dale was the
youngest son of one of Tommy’s first clients when he’d started out at the
Monaco, Lay & Associates architecture firm all those years ago. They were
close in age and had hit it off immediately. They didn’t really stay in touch,
but Tommy knew Dale was someone who could be trusted. Not because he’d shared
secrets with Dale. No, Dale could be trusted because he basically didn’t give a
shit. Besides, he was too busy chasing waves and women to care about anybody
else’s business.

“I’m good.
I’m busy,” Dale answered with a sheepish grin. “Still a lab rat. Haven’t felt
the desire or inclination to move up the corporate ladder. Happy to do my
nine-to-five in my sanitary cubicle and hit the waves on weekends.”

“So not much
has changed since you graduated college?” Tommy gave him a grin.

“Nope, and I
don’t want it to. I know you said you were in a hurry. You have the stuff?”

Tommy
reached into his pocket and pulled out two plastic bags. One held a pink
toothbrush. The other held a cotton swab, which he’d used to swipe the inside
of his own cheek. He handed them to Dale.

“I just need
a simple DNA test. I need to know if these two items contain DNA from
biological relatives. That’s all.”

“Yeah, man,
I get it.” Dale held up the bag with the pink toothbrush. “You want to know if
this is your love child. You’re not the first guy to ask for this test, man.”

“No,” Tommy
snapped. “Listen, I know for certain I’m not this child’s biological father. I
just want to know if we’re related. It’s that simple. Will you be able to tell
me that?”

“Yeah, sure,
that’s easy enough. I’ll call you.”

“Don’t call
me, Dale. I’ll call you. Is a week enough time?”

“Yeah, a
week should be good, Tom.”

“I really
appreciate this, Dale.” Tommy reached for his door handle. “I have to catch a
plane. And thanks, man. I owe you.”

Tommy watched
as Dale climbed back into his car. He turned the key to start his, and headed
for the airport.

**********

Seven days later, Tommy sat in
his office and dialed a number. Just when Dale picked up, Tommy saw his next
client waltz into the office and approach Eileen’s desk. Shit, he’s early.

Dale picked
up on the first ring.

“Hey, Dale,
it’s Tom. Wondering if you got those lab results?” he whispered.

“I did, my
man, and I have your answer,” Dale said.

“Well?”

“Yes. The
two samples you gave me share the same DNA. You are most definitely related,”
Dale said. “And I think you should—”

“You’re
sure. No doubt?” Tommy asked, his voice low but urgent as his client, obviously
ignoring Eileen who was following him, approached the office door.

“No doubt at
all, man. As a matter of fact—”

Disappointment
weighed heavily. Mimi was his half-sister. He didn’t have time to dwell on it.

“I owe you,
Dale. I’m sorry, man, gotta run. Thanks, though. Like I said, I owe you,” Tommy
replied, hanging up before Dale could comment.

On the other
side of town, Dale sat in his cubicle and reviewed the test results for the
second time. He’d wanted to double check because he distinctly remembered Tom
telling him, “I know for certain I’m not this child’s biological father.”

“Well, my friend,”
Dale said to no one as he shook his head. “I know for certain that you are this
child’s biological father, but you probably already guessed that.”

Chapter Thirteen

Leslie

2000,
Fort Lauderdale (Seven Months Before the Execution)

Leslie Cowan’s head
pounded as she squinted at the mailboxes
in the rundown neighborhood. It was New Year’s Day, and she had celebrated last
night with a combination of too much cheap wine and watered down beer. Her
stomach churned as the bright Florida sun burned a hole through her windshield
and caused her head to ache even more. Not even her darkest sunglasses could
ward off the brightness that served as a glaring reminder of last night’s
debauchery. She’d woken late this morning to find herself in an unknown bed with
an unfamiliar and extremely heavy arm draped over her.

She shook
her head as if to erase the disgust she felt with herself. What was his name?
She couldn’t remember and realized it didn’t matter. She would never see him
again.

The
neighborhood she now drove through was old, and most of the homes had seen
better days. She could see some residents still made an effort, but
unfortunately, most of their attempts at a neat and tidy yard were thwarted by
the person living next door. Overgrown lawns, junk filled porches, and cars on
blocks must be sinking these home values. Why doesn’t somebody call code
enforcement?

Oh, well,
not her problem. She thought back to last week, and how a friend had casually
mentioned that her boyfriend’s father knew some guy who used to belong to a
motorcycle gang. Leslie had heard about a big magazine that would be dedicating
an issue to celebrity bikers later this year. That rumor, combined with her
friend’s knowledge of someone who’d actually been in a biker gang, sparked an
idea—what if she could impress the big magazine with an exposé on a real
gang? Even if the special issue rumor wasn’t true, she could certainly get some
notice with a true-life biker gang article.

Her heart
sank when she found the address she was looking for. It was one of the worst on
the block.

She’d been
surprised when William Jackson, the supposed ex-gang member, suggested she meet
him on New Year’s Day. Most people liked to reserve today for recovering from
the previous night’s festivities. She would’ve liked that, too, but she was
never one to turn down an opportunity, regardless of how strange it was. If he
was up for a conversation, then so was she, even if her head and stomach
disagreed.

She pulled
up to the curb and let out a big sigh. There was so much junk in the yard that
she could barely see a pathway to the front door.

Reluctantly,
she gathered her things and got out of the car, sure to lock it behind her. It
wasn’t the best or newest car, but it was all she had. Shouldering her purse
and her bravado, she walked as confidently as she could to the porch and rang
the bell. There was no sound. It must be broken. A dog barked in the distance.
She knocked on the weathered front door and turned her back to it as she
surveyed the obstacle course of trash she’d just made her way through. A
beat-up old car was in the driveway. The rest of the yard was full of
everything from an old kitchen sink to stacks of tires. Her eyes slowly scanned
the yard, taking inventory of bicycle parts, an oven door, several toilet seat
lids, and an orange beanbag chair. It reminded her of a sad and deflated
pumpkin.

“You must be
the reporter,” she heard a male voice say from behind her. She swung around and
was at a loss for words. This couldn’t be William Jackson, the old gang member.
She was staring at a very tall, very handsome young man with bright blue eyes,
full lips, and shoulder length curly black hair. She couldn’t gauge his age,
either late teens or early twenties. He had the kind of classic good looks that
belonged on the front of the magazine she was trying to impress. He was wearing
jeans and a faded denim shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. The
tops of his forearms and what she could see of his upper chest were heavily
tattooed. He appeared slender but solidly built. He needed a shave and a
haircut.

She liked
what she saw.

“Mr.
Jackson?” She was immediately aware of her disheveled appearance. After
climbing out of John Doe’s bed that morning, she’d only had a few minutes to
clean herself up in his bathroom before coming straight to the interview.

“No. You
want my uncle.” He stepped aside and waved her inside the house, silently
shutting the door behind her.

She was
surprised the inside wasn’t as horrible as the outside. It smelled like
cigarettes and bacon, and even though it was filled with outdated and worn
furnishings, it was tidy.

She
immediately zeroed in on a man sitting on the couch. He was wearing sweat pants
and a T-shirt that said “drop dead.” He had clear tubes draped over each ear,
and they were obviously feeding him some much-needed oxygen. She started to
walk toward him to extend her hand when she stopped. He was smoking a
cigarette. That seemed awfully dangerous.

“This is
Uncle Will. Don’t let the oxygen tank and cigarettes scare you. If he hasn’t blown
us up by now, he probably won’t.”

Leslie gave
Mr. Cute Nephew a half smile. He took this opportunity to extend his own hand.

“I’m Nick
Rosman.” He saw the question in Leslie’s eyes as she extended her own hand.
“Uncle Will isn’t my real uncle. My mom used to date his younger brother. I
grew up calling them both “uncle.” Paul still lives here with him, but he’s
currently doing his third stint in rehab. Prescription drugs and alcohol. I’m
just here to help out till he comes home.”

As was his
general practice, he’d decided it was best to tell her some things up front and
avoid the chitchat and questions that would inevitably follow. He wasn’t one to
make small talk. He’d noticed the interest in her eyes at the front door and
known immediately this was one piece of snatch he wouldn’t be chasing. And if
it was chasing him, it certainly wouldn’t catch him. He could spot trash a mile
away.

“So your mom
dates Mr. Jackson’s brother, Paul?”

“Dated,”
Nick emphasized as he waved her toward a chair. “They broke up years ago. But
like I said, I grew up around them. I still do what I can to help.”

After Leslie
seated herself and pulled her notepad and pencil out of her bag, Nick offered
her something to drink. She politely declined, and after introducing herself
and quickly thanking William Jackson for agreeing to talk to her, the interview
began. Nick parked himself on the arm of another chair and only half listened
as his adopted uncle shared stories of his younger years in the motorcycle gang
that had been headquartered in a rundown old motel off State Road 84.

Nick had
been hearing these stories since he was a kid. Uncle Will considered this
bygone era to be his glory days and would occasionally brag to the boy that he
was the one whose testimony helped put Jason “Grizz” Talbot on Florida’s Death
Row. Nick had heard it all. Or at least thought he had. His ears perked up when
he heard his uncle reply to the reporter’s last comment.

“That name.
Jason Talbot. That’s kind of familiar.” Leslie’s brows drew together in concentration.
“An excavating company found the remains of a woman last year who was linked to
him or something. I can’t exactly remember. It made its way around the
reporters’ gossip circuit, but it seemed nobody wanted to touch it. I don’t
know if they were afraid to or it just wasn’t newsworthy. I can’t even remember
her name.”

“That
would’ve been Moe,” Jackson said casually as he took a short drag on his
cigarette.

“You knew
the woman they found?” Leslie sat up straight.

“Knew her in
the most intimate sense. If you know what I mean.” William Jackson winked at
her, a glint in his eyes.

Leslie
leaned closer. Now this was getting interesting.

“This gang,
this ‘club’ you’re talking about. You’re telling me it was run by a guy who’s
now on death row? Jason Talbot went to prison for having this motorcycle gang?”

“He went to
prison for a lot of things.” Jackson gave her a serious look. “He was the most
evil son-of-a-bitch I’ve ever come across. I watched him snap a woman’s neck
like it was nothing and toss her in the swamp. It was my testimony on the stand
that helped put him on death row. He’s still there. Why don’t you try and get
an interview with him? You want a real biker story, that’s who you wanna talk
to. Or better yet, you should probably talk to his wife. You know, he kidnapped
her when she was fifteen. Forced her to marry him. Well, at least she used to
be his wife. Ended up marrying one of the other gang members before Grizz was
even sentenced. I think they still live right here in South Florida somewhere.”

Leslie
couldn’t believe what she was hearing. She was chomping at the bit to get this
interview over with so she could get home and fire up her computer to see what
she could find on Jason Talbot. She didn’t remember hearing anything about him
being a biker when she heard about Moe’s remains being found. Then again, she’d
never asked or tried to dig deeper. This changed everything.

She ended
the interview as quickly and politely as she could. She asked Mr. Jackson if
she could come back if she needed to ask him some more questions. She was
certain she wouldn’t have to. She knew she’d be able to find everything she
needed on the Internet.

**********

Less than a week later, she
found herself sitting in the same chair across from William Jackson as he sucked
on a half-smoked cigarette. Nick was perched in the same spot as before. This
time he was shirtless, but Leslie barely noticed. She was infuriated,
disappointed, and maybe even a little desperate.

“Nothing.”
She scowled. “I can’t find a damn thing on anybody or anything that had to do
with this Jason Talbot. I’ve scoured the Internet for old news reports, and I
can’t find anything about a girl kidnapped in the seventies. Well, that’s not
true. There were lots of missing girls, but none I’ve been able to link to a
biker gang kidnapping. I’ve typed the name ‘Grizz’ into every search engine
there is, and all I get are pictures of grizzly bears and off-brand hunting
supplies. I’ve typed in his real name and I get online phone books for every
Jason Talbot in the country. Obviously, none of them are him. I’ve even tried
the gang’s name, and some scary-looking cult websites come up. I’ve tried the
courts. No record of a trial. If it’s there, it’s been hidden or sealed. It’s
almost as if this man doesn’t really exist.”

She narrowed
her eyes then and gave William Jackson a suspicious look, waiting for him to
say something. When he didn’t, she added, “I mean, he’s obviously real. I found
the prison where he’s at, so I know a Jason Talbot is on death row. I was able to
talk to someone there, but they told me he was sentenced to death because of a
carjacking gone bad. Yes, he obviously murdered some guy whose car he stole,
but the man I talked to at the prison also told me he had no biker gang
affiliation they’d ever heard of.” She crossed her arms. “So right now, I’m
guessing you’ve had a lot of time to sit on your couch, and I’m thinking your
need for oxygen has given you hallucinations, Mr. Jackson. You were never part
of this big, bad motorcycle gang, were you? It’s all in your head. Jason Talbot
exists. But his gang never did.”

Nick was
surprised at the reporter’s anger and accusations. She must have been living
under a rock to never have heard of Jason “Grizz” Talbot. Nick knew he existed
for sure because he knew Grizz’s old gang was still out there. They no longer
wore the jackets, and they didn’t let themselves be known like they used to,
but they were still underground and an extremely well organized group of
criminals.

And if Nick
had to guess right, Talbot was still calling the shots from prison. Come
on—how simple would it be to have some nobody office-worker on the bottom
of the prison hierarchy lie about his history? Too easy.

Nick knew
that not only Grizz’s gang but rival gangs existed because he’d been trying his
damnedest to get in with them. There weren’t many of them left, but they were
out there. He wasn’t surprised his uncle had bragged about helping to put Grizz
in prison. A smart person would’ve been scared of Talbot’s retaliation, but not
Uncle Will. When Nick had asked him about it after Leslie’s first visit, his
uncle had told him, “He don’t want vengeance on me. His attorney told me to
tell the truth about him. He said Grizz wanted it that way. Whatever his reason
was, he was looking to go to prison. I was just following an order by telling
them what I saw that night.”

Nick had
hinted to his uncle about wanting to get in with the right people, but Will
wouldn’t have it. He knew Uncle Will probably only had to make some calls and
Nick would be given a chance to prove himself through whatever initiation
ritual they required. But his adopted uncle didn’t want that for Nick. Nick was
bright and could make a living the legal way.

Little did
William Jackson know that Nick had no intention of earning his way as a
respectable American citizen. He would prove himself. He didn’t know how, but
he would get someone to notice him.

Nick’s
thoughts were interrupted when his uncle started laughing. Uncle Will threw his
head back, sat up to slap his knee.

“Couldn’t find
anything on Grizz, huh? Doesn’t surprise me one damn bit. He was always a
clever bastard, owned more than half this city. Prob’ly still does. You have
any old newspaper or police contacts? You ask anybody about him?”

Leslie
stiffened and raised her chin.

“Of course.
I’ve asked a few people I know. They all say the same thing. His name sounds
familiar, but they can’t remember much about him. It was a long time ago. What?
Fifteen years at least?”