“This is Cortland.”
Adam wasn’t sure how three words could convey a Texas accent so well, but they did just that. He pictured “Corky” as he typically saw him in law school: dressed in an open-necked blue button-down shirt, Levis, and soiled New Balance running shoes. Adam hoped Corky had upgraded his attire since he graduated.
According to Adam’s online search, E. A. Cortland, Esq., had a law practice in Houston, Texas. Adam was banking on Cortland’s tendency to skip his noon meal, hoping Corky would answer the phone himself while his receptionist or secretary or whoever usually manned the phone at his office was at lunch. So far, he’d won the trifecta: this was the right Cortland, the phone number was the one he wanted, and Corky was the one who picked up the phone.
“Corky, this is Keith Branson.” Adam had to guard his tongue to make it say his original name.
“Keith, you old dog. How are you?”
“Look, Corky. I have to keep this short, but I’m hoping you can fill in the blanks for yourself. If you do an Internet search, you’ll find that my testimony sent my father-in-law, Charlie DeLuca, to jail. Since then I’ve been on the run. I’m going to give you a number—it’s my cell phone. I’m calling in the favor you owe me for getting you through that course on torts. Will you do some digging and call me back?”
Corky acted as though this was the most natural request in the world. “No problem, Keith, although given what you’ve already told me I’d bet that’s not the name you’re using these days.”
Adam looked at the phone in his hand and discovered he’d pulled his throwaway phone from the brief case. It was just as well. He gave Corky the number. “What I need is more information than I can get from Google or LexisNexis. I need as much as you can give me.”
“Sure,” Corky said. “But why?”
“Somebody’s out to kill me, probably for testifying against Charlie DeLuca. I need whatever you can dig up on DeLuca, especially his associates and family.”
“If we both weren’t officers of the court, I’d think you wanted me to hack into some sites and circumvent the law.”
“Well—”
“Relax. Given enough time and resources, anyone could get this information quite legally. I’m just shortening the process.”
Adam chewed on that for a minute. Legal? Most likely it was a gray area, but one in which Corky had always enjoyed working. “Okay. So you’ll do it?”
Keys clicked in the background. “Sure. Sounds like fun.” More clicks. “I’m already into some sites you’d never penetrate. That was D-E-L-U-C-A, C-H-A-R-L-E-S? He’d be in his late fifties?”
“And he’ll never be any older. He died a few months ago.”
“Give me time to dig. Why don’t I call you back this evening?”
“Great. I appreciate it.”
“Not a problem.” A low whistle overrode the background clatter of keys. “Just to be sure, which family of DeLuca’s do you want to know about? Or shall I check into both of them?”
SEVENTEEN
ADAM FELT THE TREMOR OF HIS CELL PHONE AGAINST HIS THIGH. His throwaway cell, the one he’d asked Corky to use, was in his briefcase. This was his regular number. He didn’t want to ignore a call, since it might be from Carrie or Dave.
He eased the phone out, held it shielded by his desk, and checked the caller ID. It was Carrie. Adam lifted the phone to his face, pressed the button, and whispered, “Yes?”
“Can we meet tonight? I have some things to tell you.”
“Hang on.” Adam rose from his desk and moved to the far corner of the little room. He turned his back to the door and pretended to be engrossed in the titles on a shelf of law books. “We need to make this quick. I should have some information tonight too, but it may be late.”
“Late’s fine. Shall I come by the Rancho Motel again?”
“No, I checked out before my trip. But I’d rather keep you away from my apartment.” He thought a moment. The logistics were possible. “I’ll be at your back door about ten this evening.”
“Won’t you—”
“I’ll do what I did Sunday night when I came to your house. The shooter will never know I’m there. Trust me. Just be ready to open the door for me.”
“Are you going to call me on your cell when you arrive?” Carrie said.
“I thought I’d just knock.”
“Maybe we should have some sort of code so I don’t open the door and find myself staring down the barrel of a gun?”
Adam recalled Carrie’s special ring for her cell phone. “Sure. How about the opening rhythm of Beethoven’s ‘Fifth Symphony’? You know. Dah-dah-dah-dah. Four knocks in rapid succession.”
They ended the conversation and Adam hurried back to his desk, arriving just as Mary Delkus tapped on the frame of the open door. She looked like a million dollars today in a form-fitting burgundy dress. “Did I hear you talking with someone?”
“You caught me. I was talking to myself. Sometimes I like to present arguments out loud to see how they sound.” He gestured to one of the chairs in front of his desk. “Have a seat. What’s up?”
Mary smoothed her skirt over the backs of her thighs and sat. “I need to get better acquainted with you,” she said.
“Oh?”
“I feel bad.” She gave him a look of apology. “I know that I took your job, and . . . well, I’d like to make it up to you by taking you out to dinner.”
Adam didn’t know what to say.
“How about tonight?” she said, giving him a glimpse of those perfect white teeth.
Adam hadn’t known what to expect from Mary’s visit, but it certainly wasn’t this. He needed to be free to take Corky’s call, he had to be at Carrie’s late tonight, and he really didn’t know enough about this woman to be comfortable going out with her. Maybe the last factor was pure paranoia, but he was taking no chances. “Mary, that’s really very kind,” he said, “but I have something on the schedule tonight. Maybe another time.”
She smiled. “Sure. Think about it and let me know.” Adam’s eyes followed her as she strode from the office. He had little difficulty understanding how Bruce Hartley was so taken with her. But looks weren’t everything. Beauty could be used in so many ways, some of them good, some bad. As for Mary, the jury was still out, but he was getting an idea of which way he’d vote.
When Carrie left Mr. McDonald, she felt somehow freer. For almost a year she’d carried with her a sense that the man hated her, somehow held her responsible for his wife’s death. Carrie couldn’t bring Bess McDonald back to life, but maybe she’d been able to give some quality to Calvin’s life for the years he had left.
Back in her car, after the call to Adam, she wished she’d taken something that morning for her headache. She knew why Phil hadn’t prescribed Vicodin or a similar narcotic for the headaches she was sure to have over the next few days. He wanted to avoid masking late symptoms of a complication following her head injury. Carrie’s pain tolerance was pretty high, but right now her skull was throbbing.
She decided to stop for a cup of coffee and use it to wash down a couple of extra-strength Tylenol. Maybe the caffeine plus the pills would help stop the waves of pain bouncing around inside her head.
Jameson offered the usual options to those seeking a caffeine fix. The town even boasted a couple of Starbucks. It wasn’t Seattle, but still, Carrie had plenty of opportunities to get a cup of coffee and relax.
Her first thought was a small coffee shop near the hospital. After a moment’s consideration, she rejected the idea. The place was a frequent hangout for medical staff, and she didn’t want to answer a lot of questions about the shooting in the parking lot.
A banner on a building to her right caught her eye: “Now Open: Kolache Heaven.” Growing up in central Texas, she’d quickly become a fan of the doughy pastries with centers filled with fruit, cream cheese, or even a sweetened poppy seed mix. The thought of a kolache, together with a steaming cup of coffee, made her salivate. Besides, maybe hung
er was contributing to her headache. She wheeled into the parking lot, then waited patiently in line to place her order.
The man in front of her looked familiar, and when he turned she realized why. It was Rob Cole. “Dr. Markham. Glad to see you’re able to be out and about. Come to get your kolache fix?”
“Actually, I didn’t know I was hungry until I saw the sign. That’s when I decided a kolache would be good.”
“And you’re right. If you’ve never tried one—”
“I have,” Carrie said. She wasn’t interested in a long conversation, but she couldn’t figure out how to get rid of Rob without being downright rude. The register next to them opened, and Carrie stepped up and placed her order.
Rob reached into his pocket. “Please. Let me buy.”
“Thanks, Rob, but no. I’ll get my own.” She paid for her coffee and a raspberry kolache, dropped her change in the tip jar, and started to move away.
“Looks like there’s only one empty table,” Rob said. “Could we share it?”
Carrie resigned herself to prolonging the encounter. When they both were seated, she took a bite of her pastry and a sip of coffee. Then she reached into her purse and pulled out a small vial, shook two Tylenol tablets into her palm, and washed them down with more coffee.
Rob watched with interest but didn’t comment.
Carrie had an urge to eat her pastry in three or four huge bites, then make her getaway to avoid a conversation with Rob. Instead, she nibbled at the kolache, alternating with sips of coffee while wondering what Rob’s conversational opener would be. She didn’t have to wait long to find out.
“Dr. Markham, do you have any idea why someone took a shot at you in the ER parking lot?”
She wasn’t sure whether he was naïve, rude, or truly interested. In any case, it was none of his business. “Rob, I think that’s a matter for the police.” She reduced the size of her kolache by one more ladylike bite and decided to turn the tables on him. “By the way—I’ve not had an opportunity to thank you.” She smiled warmly. “You and Adam saved my life. What were you doing there anyway? You weren’t on duty.”
Rob shrugged, his expression devoid of guile. “I hang around the hospital a lot in my off hours. I don’t have a wife or family, and it’s not a lot of fun sitting around an empty apartment. I’d just parked and was on my way to get a burger in the cafeteria when I heard the shots and saw Mr. Davidson running across the parking lot carrying you.”
Carrie didn’t particularly want to make this a long conversation, but her curiosity got the best of her. Besides, there were still a couple of bites of pastry and a little coffee left. “I’m sure it can be lonely, living alone.” I know. I do it too.
“It is. And I don’t plan to be alone forever. I know the type of woman I want in my life. And I intend to go after her.”
Carrie looked at Rob and wondered if this was another clumsy attempt on his part to flirt with her. Did Rob actually think she might be interested? Or was there something more behind it?
By the end of the workday, Adam was wrung out from constant tension. He kept trying to work through the pile of material on his desk, but the stack of files seemed to refresh itself every time he whittled it down a bit. Meanwhile, he parried the questions and comments from his coworkers: from Brittany, who thought the behavior of the partners was indefensible; from Bruce Hartley, whose only concern was that briefs were filed on time and paperwork brought up-to-date; from Janice Evans, who sympathized with Adam about the problems that seemed to be hitting him one after another; from Mary Delkus, who repeated her offer to take him to dinner. And in the back of his mind was always the cryptic question of his friend Corky. “Which family of DeLuca’s?” Corky had to end the call before he could amplify on that. But by tonight Adam hoped to have some answers.
At about three o’clock, the phone on his desk buzzed. He punched the intercom button. “Yes?”
Brittany’s voice was unusually subdued. “There’s a man from the U.S. Marshalls Service on line 1. He didn’t want to give me his name, but he said it was urgent.”
Adam’s gut clenched. It could only be Dave, and Dave would only call him at work if he couldn’t get through on his cell. Adam eased the instrument out of his pocket and checked the display for missed calls. None.
“It’s okay, Brittany,” Adam said. “Probably something routine. Thanks.”
Adam punched the blinking button. “Adam Davidson.”
The voice was vaguely familiar, but it certainly wasn’t Dave’s. “Adam, this is Sam Westerman. Are you able to talk?”
Adam knew that Sam meant, “Can you talk without being overheard?” His emotions did battle. He wanted to hear what Sam had to say, hear it now, but he had precious little privacy in the office. “Call me back on my cell in five minutes.”
“I’ll need that number. Dave gave it to me, but I can’t find it.”
Adam rattled off the number and hung up. He grabbed his coat and briefcase and headed for the door, where he stopped. “Brittany, I have to get some papers to a marshall so he can serve them. I’ll be back in half an hour.” He closed the door firmly behind him before the receptionist could respond.
Ten steps away from the building, Adam stopped and looked around. Where could he go? And how did he know this wasn’t some sort of a trap? Was it really Sam calling? Could Sam be involved in the shootings? Was Dave—No, that was ridiculous. He had to trust Dave and, by extension, trust Sam.
He’d avoided his assigned spot in the building’s parking lot. Instead, his car was in a lot behind the building, which he’d entered via the back door. He headed there now. When he reached the little Subaru, he looked in all directions but saw no one nearby. He beeped the vehicle unlocked, jammed himself behind the wheel, and relocked the doors.
Adam had no time to get settled before his cell phone rang. “This is Adam.”
“Sam here. I have some bad news about your brother.”
The chill Adam felt would have made his mother say someone was walking over his grave. “What?”
“He was with a group of law officers down around the Texas-Mexico border. There was a shoot-out, and Dave was wounded. He’s okay, but he made me promise to call and let you know.”
“Where is he? I need to go there.”
“That’s the other thing he made me promise. He knew that was what you’d say, so I can’t tell you where he is. The wound isn’t severe—he’ll probably be out of the hospital in two or three days—and he said there was no need to come down.”
Adam leaned forward and rested his forehead on the steering wheel. Did he need to be with Dave right now? No, he wanted to be there, but there was nothing he could do if he went. As always, Dave was right. “Okay, I guess. Can you keep me posted on his condition? Please promise me that.”
“I’ll call you again tomorrow,” Sam said.
“And if he gets worse . . .”
“I’ll let you know.”
When Adam ended the conversation, he felt more alone than he’d ever felt in his life. His brother had always been there for him. Now Dave was out of the picture, at least for a while. Sam would help—he seemed like a good man—but there was something about the blood bond that made trust automatic.
Now, other than Carrie, was there anyone Adam could really trust?
Carrie knew she must have eaten something for her evening meal, but for the life of her she couldn’t recall what it was, how it tasted, or anything else about it. She fiddled with the TV set, channel surfing without ever locking in on anything. She paced, peered through the blinds every few minutes, looked at her watch, and in general acted like a child waiting for Christmas morning. And all because Adam was coming over.
Even though she’d had one earlier in the day when she returned from her visit with Calvin McDonald, Carrie decided she needed another shower to help her relax. She stood under the hot water for a long time, then dressed in a plain skirt, a simple blouse, and low heels. When she found herself deciding on cost
ume jewelry to complete the look, Carrie decided that was enough. For goodness’ sake, stop acting as though you’re waiting for your prom date.
By nine Carrie decided she needed something to help calm her. How about a drink? She didn’t have liquor in the house, and wouldn’t use it if she did. Tranquilizer? Same answer. She flopped into an easy chair in her living room and shuffled through the magazines on the coffee table. There was nothing there worth reading. She picked up the Bible that lay beside the magazines. Maybe this is what I need.
She was still reading more than an hour later when a sharp rat tat tat tat at her back door roused her. She looked at her watch. Quarter past ten. Adam was here.
Carrie hurried to the kitchen. The top half of the back door was glass, divided into six rectangles by a latticework of wood and covered by a half curtain. She pulled the curtain aside far enough to see Adam standing on her back porch, scanning all around, his shoulders hunched as though by doing so he could make himself invisible. He wore dark jeans and a green sweatshirt.
She turned the latch and opened the door. “Come on in.”
He hurried inside. “Lock the—”
Carrie was already working on it. She double locked the door and slid a security chain into place.
“How did you get here without someone seeing you?”
“Same way I did Sunday night.” Adam wiped sweat from his forehead and finger-combed his hair. “I parked two blocks away, then came down alleys. I kept in shadows most of the way. Your fence was easy enough to climb. I’m sure no one followed me.”
“Is this what you’re reduced to now? Sneaking around through alleys in the dark? I thought you were through hiding.”
Heart Failure Page 17