by Tim Green
Tim Green
The Red Zone
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Book Cover:
New York Times Bestselling Author And Former Nfl Pro Tim Green has delighted legions of fans with his astonishing leap to literary stardom. Here Green offers a dark, superbly crafted story of murder in the spotlight and intrigue in the shadows--and a shocking ending that knocks the wind out of you.
When Evan Chase, the owner of an NFL team, turns up facedown in the coastal waters near his oceanfront mansion, there is no want of suspects. First, there's the ambitious business partner who's eager to relocate Chase's team to another city in exchange for millions. Then there's Chase's beautiful and willful young wife, who stands to inherit his fortune. Even more intriguing to the media and the police is Luther Zorn-- the team's vicious linebacker who just happens to be embroiled in a torrid affair with the dead owner's wife.
Top-notch defense attorney Madison McCall agrees to represent Zorn in what first appears to be an open-and-shut case. But even the brilliant young lawyer could never envision the labyrinth of high-stakes corruption and maniacal blood lust--especially when three grisly murders are surprisingly linked to her client.
THE RED ZONE is a place chilling in mood, compelling in characters, and gripping in suspense--the tour de force of an ingenious storyteller.
PROLOGUE:
Dawn was nothing more than a pink glow behind the dark bank of clouds stacking up out over the ocean. A stiff offshore breeze had whipped the surf into a foam, and despite the time of day it was already quite warm. The storm was imminent. Sandy Kiffleman strode purposefully up the beach, her thin frame, freckles, and the red-orange hair tucked up under her hat giving her the look of a teenager. She was, in fact, a National Park Ranger. Hers was serious work, as serious as any other federal agent s. Although there were jobs within the National Park Service where the most challenging assignment might be dealing with a drunken camper or a hive of bees, for the rangers who patrolled MacCarther National Park, this was not the case. For a park ranger, South Florida was a war zone.
Her instincts were telling her something now, as she surveyed the beach. When she'd arrived at the north parking lot at five A. M., it was empty as it should have been. Overnight parking was not allowed. On a whim Sandy had pulled her truck off the blacktop where an overgrown track led to a clearing in the trees by the beach. Occasionally she would find a couple too cheap to spend fifty dollars for a motel room down the road. Instead of teenage lovers, however, she spotted a nondescript Ford Taurus backed into the bushes. If her dad hadn't raised her to hunt white-tailed deer in the hills of Pennsylvania each fall, she probably would have missed it altogether. But to her, freshly broken twigs were as obvious a marker as orange construction cones.
The hood of the car was cool. It had been there for a while. From the tags it appeared to be a rental. She thought it strange that someone with the means of renting a car would look to spend an illicit night on the beach with the sand fleas. Something didn't feel quite right. Although an out-of-towner might have reason to pull off the blacktop, attempting to hide the car in the bushes was above and beyond the call of breaking park rules. Besides, Sandy was paid to be suspicious. She pocketed her hand radio and instinctively felt for her Browning 9mm, before hiking down a short path toward the beach on foot.
She walked north for a mile, all the way to Lost Tree Village, an exclusive Palm Beach development, and back, but saw no sign of anyone. She decided to search the vehicle and to have someone call in to the rental company to find out who had leased the car. She was walking close to the surf where the sand was firm and was just about to turn back toward the parking lot and her truck when she froze. Like a ghost, a frogman had suddenly appeared knee-deep in the surf about a hundred yards up the beach. She could see he was carrying a speargun and there was a fish-laden net tossed over one of his shoulders. She cursed under her breath.
She'd seen many fools in her day, but this was a first: a guy spearfishing in a national park! Whoever he was, and whatever fish and game rules he was breaking, he was clearly not a smuggler. That is, unless the cartels had found a way to turn grouper into coke mules. As a precaution, Sandy unfastened the snap on her holster. She had no trouble imagining the gibes she would get back at the station if they learned she'd pulled her gun on a tourist for poaching. It was probably overkill, but Sandy always believed in having an edge. If she had to pull her gun, she would, and she wouldn't get caught fumbling with the snap either. Pulling the gun was something Sandy practiced in front of the full-length mirror on her bathroom door. Alone, of course.
When she'd covered half the distance between them, the diver looked at her and waved before plunking himself down in the sand to remove his gear.
"Damn fool," she muttered out loud.
"Sir," she said, stopping ten feet in front of the man, with her back to the ocean and the brewing clouds, "do you have some identification?"
The man looked up at her. His teeth shone like rich pearls in the early morning light. He had stripped down to his swim trunks. He was a big man, and muscles rippled in his arms, stomach, and chest. One of the fish lurched in the sack by his feet, and it made Sandy jump.
"You say that like I've done something wrong, officer," he said pleasantly.
"You have," she responded with a coldness that she didn't really feel, and pointed accusingly at the five large gasping fish at his feet, each one dying slowly from a bloody perforation in its midriff. "Those fish are going to cost you a hundred dollars each."
This obviously disturbed him.
"I . . ." he stuttered, "I really had no idea . . ."
''bu had your car tucked away pretty nicely for having no idea," she responded without expression from behind her dark glasses. "Now, I'd like to see some ID."
"You know," he said apologetically, "I really don't even know how to use this thing. I kind of rented it as a lark . . ."
The diver touched the speargun casually as he referred to it. It almost seemed to Sandy that he was moving in slow motion as his hand tightened around the guns rubber grip and as he swung its pointed broadhead toward her with his other hand. This was it. Sandy had secretly imagined something like this since first becoming a ranger. The motion of drawing her weapon was almost instinctive, she'd done it so many times. Her mind, though, moved faster than her body. Her limbs seemed weighted down. This was different from the mirror. Nonetheless, she got her Browning halfway out of its holster before the two-and-a-half-foot steel shaft shattered her sternum and ripped through her heart like a bolt of lightning lifting her off her feet and knocking her backward.
It didn't hurt. She was surprised more than anything, and angry with herself for not pulling the gun sooner, for becoming distracted by the smiling man and his easy way. It wasn't supposed to happen this way. She grasped feebly at the spear that protruded from her chest, but she lacked the energy to pull it free. He was standing there, above her now. And even before her vision faded to black, Sandy was aware that he was dragging her by the feet toward the surf and the incoming tempest.
Chapter 1
Adadison McCall checked her watch as she hurried down the long corridor on the main floor of her firms ornate offices. As usual, Madison wore clothes that were stylish, but that concealed her well-toned body. She didn't want to be regarded as just a body, or even a face, and she never had. Growing up, Madison was the girl who could have been the captain of the cheerleading team or Miss Texas. She never tried. When she was six years old she watched her father deliver a closing argument in a murder trial. Since that day, Madison knew she would be a lawyer. She was never smug about it, but as she grew up, other things just didnt matter as much as they seemed to matter to the rest of the girls her age.
Even now--especially now--it was hard to
not notice the gleam in her pretty green eyes which were perfectly spaced above high, shapely cheeks. Her nose was just long enough to set her apart without detracting from her good looks. Her light brown hair was thick and soft, but she rarely let it down. Even with her hair up, Madison almost always drew a second look. At thirty-four, she was the youngest senior partner in her law firm. Her natural attractiveness, however, had nothing to do with her unusually rapid advancement. She had achieved that through her lawyering. Unfortunately, neither her looks nor her brains could help her now. She was late.
"Hi, Dotty, I'm running," she said with a quick wave over her shoulder as she passed in and out of a large wood-paneled chamber that faced a bank of elevators. Dotty, the scowling receptionist, sat like a foreboding gargoyle at her claw-footed desk in the middle of a thick blue oriental rug. She was an old crab, but even she seemed unable to help herself from smiling when Madison bubbled by.
Madison skidded to a stop on the marble floor in front of the wide double doors on her right. Absently, she brushed back a lock of her hair that had escaped its bun and fallen into her face. She took a deep breath, pulled open one of the doors, and stepped inside. She expected to be confronted with the disapproving scowl of Dorian Baxter, the oldest and most powerful man in the firm and one of the most respected attorneys in the state of Texas. She was also prepared for painful silence from the rest of the firms partners as they looked on with pursed lips while Baxter berated her for being late. Instead, the six other partners on her firms executive committee were clustered about Dorians throne at the head of the conference table, standing anxiously like a handful of schoolchildren waiting for the bell to ring.
Instead of frowns, she was met with seven benevolent smiles. Madison would almost have preferred frowns. There was only one other woman in the room, Isabelle Denofrio, and her smile was the weakest of the bunch. Madison quickly reviewed her life over the past month, searching for the one thing that had gone drastically wrong and resulted in the trap that was so obviously about to be sprung.
"Madison, good," Dorian Baxter said in his thick sonorous voice. "We were just talking about you."
"I noticed," Madison said. "That's what I get for being late."
Baxter was a large man with swarthy skin and flowing white hair. He wore a charcoal suit with a conservative tie and a bright white shirt, a modern-day monarch. It was rumored he was close to eighty years old, but he could easily pass for a healthy sixty. His pale green eyes were piercing, and left people with the impression that nothing could be hidden from him. The rest of the partners scattered to their respective chairs, still smiling and nodding affably at Madison. She found her own seat and pulled a pen and a yellow legal pad out of her briefcase, setting them on the table in front of her before she looked back up at Dorian with the same winning innocent smile she used when addressing a jury.
"As you know, Madison," Dorian began, before pausing to clear his throat, "this year the firm has had some of the worst financial difficulties in its one-hundred-and-thirty-seven-year history."
Madison wondered when he would get to the point.
"Were facing the unusual dilemma of having to look for places within the firm that we can cut," he continued.
This puzzled Madison more than worried her. Of . course she didnt make as much money for the firm as some. Isabelle, who specialized in medical malpractice, could sometimes clear several million in a good year. As good as Madison was, the fact remained that criminals didn't typically have the resources to pay very big legal bills. Still, she had billed consistently for the past ten years and was careful to represent at least four paying customers for every indigent pro bono case she took on. She was easily worth her quarter-million-dollar salary. If anything, she had been expecting a raise.
"In that respect, one area in this firm stands out." Baxter held Madison's gaze with the cold certainty of an inflexible manager.
"I know it's difficult, still, for you to talk about Marty Cahn," Baxter said, clearing his throat politely, "and I respect that. However, this firm has to move forward, and it has been over a year since his unfortunate death."
Madison was sure the entire room could hear her heart beating. Marty Cahn had been her best friend, a tax lawyer with whom she'd gone through law school. His death had been sudden and violent, the result of his involvement in one of her murder trials. In fact, it was the trial of the man who was now Madison's husband. Any mention of Marty's name and death was loaded with emotion.
"However," Baxter's voice boomed after a substantial pause, breaking Madison's trance, "life goes on, and this firm goes on. It will after each of us has gone. And so, we would like you to seriously consider taking on one aspect of Marty's responsibilities that has suffered since his unfortunate demise.
"I'm referring to Marty's sports agency practice."
Madison's eyes focused sharply. She looked around the room to see that every other partner was staring at her.
"The fact is, Madison," Baxter said, "Marty was bringing in substantial revenue from the work he did for NFL players alone. He brought in almost twice as much money in that area as he did in his tax work, no small accomplishment, and all while expending a tenth of the hours. Unfortunately, without Marty, this source of revenue has dried up. Marty seemed to have a knack for winning over these players. The associate who worked for him obviously lacks those skills.
"We want you to take over the sports agency. And continue with your trial work, of course."
"No," Madison said without hesitation, looking bravely at Dorian Baxter. "I'm a trial lawyer. I'm one of the best in my field, and that is exactly what I want to do. It's all I want to do. I'm sorry."
Baxter pursed his lips and nodded grimly.
"I'm sorry, too," Baxter said coldly. He was not a man used to people saying no. "You see, we thought that with your marriage to Cody Grey and your affiliation with the NFL, and with the celebrity status that you've acquired in the last year since your husband's trial, well, we thought you could save some people's jobs."
"I really have no affiliation with the NFL, Dorian," Madison said as pleasantly as she could, "nor do I want to have. I don't think I'd be the person for that job. Is that all?"
"No," Baxter said, pushing a folder toward her across the smooth rich grain of the mahogany conference table. "Since you are refusing the direct request of this committee, you will be the one to tell Chris Pelo that he no longer works here."
Madison started to protest, but Baxter cut her off by raising his hand and his voice at the same time. "Let me tell you, young lady, that you're not the only talented trial lawyer I've seen. This isn't about what you want to do and don't want to do. This is about this firm and its well-being. You have the opportunity to help this firm in an hour of crisis!
"That you choose to take the path of self-service is a disappointment," Baxter said, his voice becoming appropriately sad, "but as the managing partner, I will not take it upon myself to terminate a member of this firm when his position could have been preserved with some good old-fashioned teamwork."
"Fine," Madison fumed, snatching the file from the table and rising to her feet. "But if you think that you can coerce me into taking on a specialty practice I have neither the background for nor interest in by making me do what is rightly your job, you're wrong. Oh, I'll tell Chris--and I'll tell him I'm sorry that he works for such a cold-blooded bunch as we obviously are, measuring our attorneys in terms of dollars and cents instead of their competence and integrity. One bad year, and we're already looking for who we can cut. Maybe he'll be better off elsewhere. Maybe we all would be."
Madison stormed out of the conference room and hurried back to her office, where she shut the door so she could stew in private. She didnt want to say anything else she would regret. It wasn't that Madison didn't think she was right. But, in a way, so was Baxter. Her firm did go beyond individual lawyers. The firm was an entity that had been there long before her, and would be there long after.
Madison rememb
ered when she was first offered a job with Caldburn, Baxter and Thrush. It was the biggest moment of her life. It was her dream come true. Her father was a respected trial attorney in Dallas, and she could have easily joined his practice. But Madison had wanted to make her own way, and she knew that in Austin there were opportunities, if she was smart enough and good enough to secure them. When she'd first come to the firm out of law school, Timothy Pembrook, a lawyer whose skills even her father revered, had taken her under his wing, and by his death at the age of seventy-four, he had trained her to be one of the best.
Neither Pembrook, nor her father, had served two masters. They were trial lawyers and nothing else. Therein lay the conflict. The man who had given her career life by making her his protege fresh out of law school was also the man whose focus was unwavering. Now she was faced with the choice of lending a hand to someone in need or maintaining the single-minded focus that had made her the best.
"Why am I even thinking about this?" she said out loud in a bewildered voice.
"Nancy," she said into her intercom. "Get me Chris Pelo, please. Tell him I need to see him right away."
"Yes, Ms. McCall," her secretary said.
Madison opened the file on the desk in front of her. On top was a termination letter. She glanced through the terms: three months' pay, one year of medical coverage for his entire family, prorated bonuses for this year. They were also letting him take the sports client list and the nontax files with him. It was all very fair, not something to be ashamed of. It was just business.
When Pelo walked through the door, it was clear to her why the sports agency was foundering. She wondered for the hundredth time why Marty had ever attempted to cultivate this man as an NFL agent. Pelo was forty-three. He wore an ill-fitting gray suit and a red tie that was too short, with a knot that was too big. Madison suspected that he grew his bushy mustache to draw attention away from his badly pocked skin. His hair seemed bereft of any style whatsoever, nothing more than a thatch. The only physical attribute he seemed to possess was a pair of deep-set eyes, bottomless black pools that focused with obvious intelligence. Madison knew that this guy was the last person ninety-nine point ninety-nine percent of all NFL players would even consider talking to about representing them. Agents in the NFL were a slick lot. Even Marty, with his angular frame and thick glasses, had cut an impressive figure because of his height alone. And Marty always knew how to put it on when he had to. He looked smart, and he was. Everyone around him sensed it. He knew how to dress and he knew how to order wine. Chris Pelo was the kind of guy who would have to prove he was smart, and NFL players didnt like to wait around for people to prove themselves.