Dead Wrong (42 page)

“What?” Miranda frowned, picking up on his hesitation. “What are you thinking?”

“According to the deputies who were with them in the van, they didn’t chat at all.” Crosby pulled into a parking spot and cut the engine. “Apparently, they didn’t even sit near each other. Vince liked to sit in the front, behind the driver. Channing sat in the rear, next to one of the deputies.”

“They had to have been alone at some point,” Miranda murmured. “I know there’s a connection between these two.”

“Yeah, my gut’s telling me the same thing.” Crosby got out of the car and walked up to the prison doors. “I’ll call you back and let you know what Giordano tells me.”

He stopped at the front desk to chat with the receptionist, then asked her to see if the assistant warden had a few minutes for him.

She placed the call, then buzzed Crosby through. He followed the familiar hall to the administrative offices. He waved to the pretty office assistant as he passed through on his way to Fred McCabe’s office. The door was open and McCabe was waiting for the detective to arrive.

“Evan, how’ve you been?” The beefy ex-wrestler extended an equally beefy paw for Crosby to shake.

“Good. Good, thanks, Fred.”

“Have a seat.” McCabe closed the door. He nodded at the file that Crosby slid across the desktop. “That help you out any?”

“Helped me connect the dots. Now all I have to do is figure out what picture those dots are making, and we’ll be home free. I just need a few minutes with Mr. Giordano—”

“Vince Giordano?” McCabe’s brows knit together.

“Yeah, how many Giordanos you got out here?”

“None.”

“What?”

“As of two o’clock this afternoon, no prisoners named Giordano.”

“But . . .” Crosby felt flustered, deflated. “How . . . ?”

“Court order. Didn’t you hear about it?”

“I heard one was in the works, but—”

“Judge Mulvaney signed it this morning, and by two, the bastard was walking out the front door, smug as could be.” McCabe shook his head. “Had his lawyer send someone from the office to pick him up. Laughed all the way from his cell to the car.”

“Son of a bitch.” Crosby’s face flushed and he slammed his fist onto the top of the desk. “Son of a bitch . . .”

“Hey, Crosby, I know how you feel. Believe me, if there’d been any way to hold him, we’d have done it.”

“Any idea where he was going?”

“He didn’t confide in me. Try his attorney. He might know. Want me to look up his lawyer for you?”

“No, I know who it is. Thanks.” Crosby stood, the room suddenly too small to contain him. His anger was growing by leaps and bounds. He had to leave.

“Thanks,” he said again, and headed out the door, silently cursing the system that could turn an animal like Vincent Giordano back into society.

CHAPTER
TWENTY-THREE

A
IDAN SAT ON THE SAND, HIS HEELS DUG IN, AND
watched the woman who lay beside him, her face turned to the sun. He reached out a hand to straighten the old quilt where it had curled back on one end, resisting the urge to lie down and just hold her close to him. They were at the end of a long, perfect weekend at the beach. Mara would be leaving soon to go back to Lyndon, back to her job, her home. Her life before him.

He didn’t want her to leave, but he didn’t know how to ask her to stay.

Spike trotted across the sand with something in his mouth. The dog ran to within ten feet of the blanket, then shook whatever it was he had to tease Aidan.

“Bring that over here, let me see what you have, you little monkey,” Aidan whispered loudly. The dog pawed the sand merrily.

“I’m not asleep,” Mara told him without opening her eyes, “so you don’t have to whisper. What does he have, anyway?”

“Looks like a crab shell.” Aidan rose to take it from Spike, who immediately took off down the beach with it, Aidan in pursuit.

On the blanket, Mara sat up on her elbows to watch the chase. Aidan’s gait had improved somewhat thanks to a good physical therapist and a lot of determination on his part. His leg looked stronger and stronger all the time. Not strong enough to allow him to pass the exam to go back on full, regular duty, but enough to get by. Besides, Mancini had called on Friday and asked him to report in on Monday morning. He had another special assignment.

Good for Aidan,
Mara thought as she watched him play with the dog.
He needs to work again, needs to know he’s still what he always was: a damn good special agent. God knows he’s the most special person I’ve ever met. . . .

He headed back to where she sat, his feet kicking up little clouds of sand. Spike, sensing the game had run its course, followed, then ran ahead to lie at Mara’s side.

“I almost forgot. I have something for you,” Aidan told her when he reached the blanket. “I found it before we went to Ohio and forgot to give it to you.”

He took something from his pocket as he sat down, and she leaned over to look. A smooth piece of green sea glass lay in his open palm.

“Beautiful,” she sighed, touching it tentatively. “For me?”

“It matches your eyes.”

“This is perfect.” She picked it up and held it up to the sun. “Just perfect. Thank you.”

She leaned over to kiss his mouth. “I’ll take it to the jeweler back in Lyndon and see if he can drill a hole in it so that I can wear it on a cord. I love it. Thank you. It’s the loveliest present I ever received.”

She leaned against him. “I am so happy here,” she sighed.

“Well, it is great here in May, but the crowds build up as the summer progresses. You might not enjoy the beach as much then.”

“It isn’t the beach that makes me happy.” She nuzzled the side of his face. “Being with you makes me happy.”

“Then you should spend more time here. Come more often, stay longer.” He put an arm around her and snuggled her close to his body.

“I fully intend to take you up on that. Whenever you have time for me . . .”

“I will always make time for you.”

“May not be so easy. It sounds as if John plans on keeping you busy.”

“He knows I have to have a certain amount of time each week with the therapist. I suspect that, whatever this special assignment is, there’s going to be some leeway.” He rubbed the side of her face with his own. “I can’t imagine going back to a life with no you. I feel like I’ve come back from the dead. I never thought I’d ever feel this way again, that life held . . .
promise
.”

“I know that exact feeling.” She looped her arm around his. “Isn’t it amazing? Isn’t it wonderful?”

“Wonderful, yes.” He pulled her closer. “Where do we go from here?”

“We go weekend to weekend”—she grinned up at him—“and we see where it leads.”

“That sounds good.” He nodded. “That sounds just right.”

They sat close together, watching clouds gather and scatter across the afternoon sky.

“There’s one thing you need to understand,” Mara said solemnly. “I’ll never stop looking for her. No matter what, I will search for her until I find her. No matter how long it takes.”

“Then I will search with you, every step of the way, until we find her,” he promised. “No matter how long it takes . . .”

The road leading out of town was a long one, but Vince Giordano was whistling all the way. Fifteen more miles to go . . .

He lowered the driver’s side window of the car he’d borrowed from his attorney—promising its return by evening—on the pretext of visiting his mother.
Right.
He snorted.
Like my mother has had one word for me in the past three years.

It doesn’t matter,
he told himself.
None of it matters now.
He was out, and out for good, thanks to the stupid goddamn policeman who couldn’t resist shooting off his stupid mouth. And Vince Giordano did thank him most sincerely.

Five more miles, according to the odometer, and he’d be at his destination. Jeez, he hoped that no one had found it while he was gone. His biggest fear was that some kids playing around would have discovered what he’d buried three years ago, on the afternoon he’d gone to the house he’d once shared with his family and . . . well, done what he’d done.

He turned off the main road and onto a country lane that was wide enough to allow one car in each direction. He was close now, and he slowed down, searching for his landmarks. At the stop sign that marked the T-intersection, he looked both ways before pulling straight across and into a clearing. A barely visible drive, once dirt, now overgrown with weeds, lay ahead, and he followed it until he came to a barn that was one bad windstorm away from oblivion. Giordano pulled around the barn to park behind it. He got out of the car and, leaving the door open, stood in the knee-high weeds, his hands on his hips, and studied the back of the barn.

He counted twenty-two boards over from the corner, then knelt at the foundation, where he worked with his bare hands at a large loose rock until he could move it from side to side. He tugged at it, then pried at it with a stick he found a few feet away, waiting for the rock to dislodge and pull away from the foundation to leave a gaping hole. He thrust his hands inside, his fingers searching for cold metal.

Relieved to find the box right where he’d left it, he held his breath while he opened it and found the contents intact. Inside was the large stash of cash that he’d embezzled from his own construction company over the years after his marriage and before his arrest. He liked to think of it as his nest egg, a source of cash that Diane had never known about. After all, hadn’t he earned it all with his sweat and blood? A wife didn’t need to know everything.

Testing, just to make certain, he reached deeper into the hole and felt around into the farthest crevice. Yes, it was still there. He smiled to himself. The gun he’d used to kill his family, the weapon that had never been found.

And never would be, as long as this old barn stood.

He looked up at the old structure. Might be time for a new hiding place.

For now, this one would have to do. He counted out a large amount of the cash, stuffed the bills into his pockets, and returned the rest to the steel box, which he then shoved into the hole. He slid the rock back into place and stood, dusting off his hands. He looked up into the clear blue sky, watched a few birds settle into a tree off to his right. He took a deep, deep breath, feeling good about the day, about his circumstances, about his life.

He got back into the car and drove out the way he came in, grateful that there’d been no other traffic to see him come and go. He wanted to lie low for a while, enjoy his newfound freedom.

On his way back to town, he made a mental list of things to do. Find a place to live, someplace cheap and out of the way. And a car—he’d need wheels. A job was out of the question—everyone around here knew him. Some other place, though, he could start up another carpentry business. He had plenty of cash to bankroll himself. He could change his name, start life over again.

And of course, he had a job to do.

After all, if Curtis—that crazy son of a bitch—could do for him, he was sure enough going to do for Archer. After all, Vince was as much a man as Channing had been.

And then when Archer got out, he’d do for Curtis. Whether he wanted to or not. One way or another, Vince would see to it that Archer played out his part, did the deeds for Channing. After all, Channing had given his life doing for Giordano. The least he could do was to make certain that Archer repaid the debt.

Giordano thought about the kid as he negotiated the narrow bends in the road. The kid had been green as new grass and dumb as mud.

He’d never killed anyone, he’d said.

Well, he’d probably never made a deal with the devil before, either, but he was still going have to ante up. And if Giordano did for Archer as Channing had done for him, well, you can bet your ass that Archer was going to do for Channing. Even if Giordano had to stand behind him every step of the way and tell him what to do.

It was only supposed to be a game, Giordano mused. Just a game . . .

Then, unexpectedly, Curtis Channing had decided to play it out for real. He’d dropped the gauntlet, and now Vince Giordano was about to pick it up.

In his mind, he ticked off the names that Archer Lowell had whispered as they’d huddled together in the courthouse that icy day in February, names he’d repeated to himself every day, lest he forget.