by Nancy Grace
Most groom’s mothers did not have a starring role in their son’s weddings, which seemed so unfair to Tish. She took it upon herself to plan the whole thing for poor Julie. The girl was hopeless at event planning. Julie had actually started with what she called an “intimate gathering of family and friends.” Ridiculous. Why even bother to get married? “Intimate gatherings” were not picked up by the Savannah Chronicle. Fat chance. The couple wouldn’t be able to buy their way into the wedding or engagement announcements. Of course, Julie Love insisted that didn’t matter.
An “intimate gathering” screamed “shabby and cheap” to Tish. Once Julie was confronted with the Adams guest list, things began to look up. Not another single body could’ve fit into the sanctuary of the Savannah First United Methodist Church. By the time all the Adams guests were tallied, Julie tearfully announced, at an Adams family dinner no less, that her family couldn’t afford a big reception. Tish could still remember the moment even now, when Julie conjured fat tears to roll down her cheeks into the linen napkin in her lap. Her voice trembling, she said her mom and dad simply couldn’t swing it financially.
What a little liar. Tish and her husband ended up footing half the bill for the party. Tish was still stewing over it. The papers—yes, Tish called in a favor and got the wedding details in the Chronicle after all—the papers said Julie Love was a beautiful bride . . . a beautiful fake as far as Tish was concerned.
In fact, if only the world could see through Julie Love’s façade, they’d realize this whole mess was actually Julie’s fault. She was so simpering, so mealymouthed, so saccharine sweet. Tish had watched it for years. In her own mind, she often called it “The Julie Love Show.” Everything about the girl was a put-on. Even using her handicapped brother as a prop. Pushing him around at public events, fussing over him as if she really cared. It was a ploy. A ploy to get people to notice her, to love her, to get on all their good sides.
Julie never, not for one second, fooled Tish. She could see through that the first time Todd had brought her over to the house to meet his mother. She had taken Todd away, put on that spectacle of a wedding where Tish was a nothing. Julie never let Todd spend time with his family anymore. Then she tried to lock him into a loveless marriage with a baby of all things . . . and now, this!
Anybody in their right mind could see what kind of boy Todd really was. Why, he had it all . . . good looks, charm, education, manners, a good job . . . everything!
The truth was, Todd had always been too good for Julie Love. Tish knew it and so did the whole neighborhood. And here they were, all lined up in court and siding against Todd! With friends like these . . .
“But Mom . . .”
“No ‘buts.’ Everything will work out, you’ll see, my precious boy. Now . . . let’s talk about what you should wear tomorrow for court. That’s all you have to worry about. Do you understand?”
He nodded, shutting up so his mom could talk, like always. It was easier that way.
“It’s all going to be OK. You just wait and see. You’ve got the best lawyer money can buy. Listen to me . . . listen to your mother. Now I’m going to get those photos for you to put up in your room.”
“It’s not a room, Mother, it’s a cell. A jail cell.”
“I know that, dear, but I prefer to refer to it as your room. And that’s how you should think of it too, like a dorm room.”
“A dorm room? Are you crazy?”
“Calm down, son. No need for the sheriffs to hear you agitated, is there? Remember, I went to nursing school before I married your father and had you. Want me to get a doctor’s order for a sedative?”
“You never finished.”
Tish gave her son a look that would’ve scared anyone else into cold silence before she spoke. “Thank you for reminding me that I gave up a career for you and your father. And no, dear . . . I’m not crazy. I’m just trying to make the best of a bad situation and that’s what you need to do, too. Now let’s get those pictures of Julie Love up in your room.”
“My cell.”
“The power of positive thinking, Todd, positive thinking.”
“Mother. I’m behind bars on two murder one counts. My trial starts in the morning. They had to bus jurors in from another county. What’s positive about that?”
Todd Adams’s voice took on a whining quality. His mother didn’t notice.
“What’s positive? The fact that the world will hear what a wonderful son and husband you are. They’ll hear about your golf scholarship, your job, your degree, your beautiful home and family . . . that’s what’s positive.”
“And I don’t want those pictures up in my cell.”
“Room.”
“OK . . . room . . . whatever! I don’t want those pictures up in my room!”
“But why? That doesn’t make any sense.”
“Because . . .” He paused. “They make me depressed. I’m already miserable in this place. Crappy food, hardly any TV, and it’s not even cable . . .”
“But photos of you and Julie Love will remind you of all the happy times—”
“No they won’t. They’ll remind me that I’m here in jail because she’s dead. They’ll remind me of home . . . of what I’m missing.”
“Shut up!” It came out like a hiss. Tish turned in her seat to look back at the guard at the door. He was pale and wimpy. The way he’d kept peering in through the glass door, glaring through a hideous set of thick glasses . . . she was positive he’d eavesdropped on every single word she and her son had so stupidly uttered.
His mother’s tone made him sit up straight in his chair and stop the whining.
“How will it look in front of a jury when they find out you don’t have a single photo of Julie Love up in your room?”
“Cell. My cell, Mother.”
The two sat in sulky silence, each staring the other down. Finally, Tish Adams broke the silence.
“Your father and I didn’t work our fingers to the bone to have our son arrested, much less convicted for first-degree murder. This absolutely will not happen to our family. Now you listen to me and you listen good. You will put up these photos and you’ll keep them up. And remember, no friends. Nobody in this facility is your friend, not the guards, not the inmates, not even the chaplain. You have one friend, Todd, and that’s me. Your mother.”
He wouldn’t look up, instead gazing down at his knees like a corrected schoolboy.
“Now wipe that look off your face. Your father’s about to come in to visit and then DelVecchio. I’ll get the photos. Understood?”
Todd Adams wouldn’t answer.
“I said, understood?”
“Understood, Mother.”
“Good. You’ll see, sweetheart. And don’t worry about the Cynthia girl. That will have no bearing on this whatsoever. It was just a stupid mistake on your part, really just careless. It was ancient history . . . all the way back to high school. Nobody cares about that. And, truth be told, if you hadn’t been married to someone . . . someone like her . . . you’d have never sought a shoulder to cry on. That’s all it was really, just a shoulder to cry on. This will all turn out just fine. You’ll be out of here in no time and back home where you belong. With your father and me.”
Todd Adams said nothing.
Undeterred by her son’s lack of enthusiasm, she went on. “Mark my words, son, we will hold our heads up high in this town again. We will show our faces at church the very first Sunday you are out of this . . . this dungeon, and we will march right up the center aisle and onto the front row. You’ll see.”
“Mom, if you hate this town so much, why don’t we just move once this is over?”
The look she gave him should have killed him, but it didn’t. In fact, it seemed to have no impact at all.
Looking deftly over her shoulder, she plowed forward a little more loudly and a lot more cheerfully. “I’ll bring the pictures of Julie over in the morning. The wedding photo, in particular, will look perfect right over your bed. On second t
hought, maybe we should go with, I mean, you’d probably want the sonogram.”
He looked up at his mother blankly. “The what?”
“The sonogram . . . of the baby . . . from the doctor’s office, you dolt.” The words came out in another hiss that caused the guards to look toward them.
Tish Adams straightened her spine, smoothed down the pale yellow skirt of her matching Talbots sweater and skirt set, and pulled up the corners of a smile. She methodically gathered together her purse, papers, and a gorgeous set of faux tortoiseshell Chanel sunglasses. She stood up to leave. Brushing past the guards, she smiled brightly. “Hello, gentlemen! How nice to see you this morning! Have a blessed and wonderful day, you two.”
CHAPTER FIVE
Hailey lowered the window to let the breeze blow onto her face and rush through her hair. It was the exact opposite of the canned, recirculated air on the plane. Leaving the airport exit, grass on either side of the I-95 waved gently in the breeze. A lonely seagull flew just ahead of the Crown Vic, floating on a current against a blue sky.
The hot afternoon was interrupted when squawks on Fincher’s police radio ripped into a steady stream, the brief jumble of numbers repeatedly followed by an address or a truncated sentence.
Police spoke in a language of numbers, each one signaling a different police call: car accident, burglary, stolen car, and so on. The numeric talk was so pervasive on the job it became second nature, and they often used it in regular speech.
“Turn it up, Fincher.”
“No, little girl, this is none of our business. This isn’t Atlanta.”
“Come on. Turn it up. I can’t help it. I have to know!”
“OK. But curiosity killed the cat . . .”
“And satisfaction brought it back!” She had a comeback ready. Fincher reached his right hand across and turned up the volume on his police radio.
“Repeat . . . 48-4 . . . 50-48. 48-4 . . . 50-48.” The voice from dispatch sounded urgent.
“Hailey, that’s a—”
“I know what it is. Person dead.”
Dispatch interrupted again. “. . . 3443 Randolph Drive . . . corner Randolph and Armory.”
“All units in the vicinity, signal 63. Repeat . . . signal 63. Code 3. Repeat signal 63.”
Hailey felt a shock go down her body and turned quickly to Fincher. “It’s a 63, Fincher.” A sick feeling burned in the pit of her stomach. 63 meant officer down.
Suddenly, Fincher jerked the wheel to the right, steering the car at the last second across two lanes of speeding cars and up an exit ramp off the interstate.
“What are you doing, Finch?”
“I know that street. I know that address. I’ve been there. My army buddy’s off Randolph. We were in Iraq together.”
“And?” Hailey didn’t need to finish the sentence.
“And we’re going over there.”
“Fincher, you just got back from Iraq. Vickie will kill you if she finds out you headed to an active homicide scene you didn’t have to go to. Forget you, she’ll kill me for letting you go!”
“We have to go. I’m not standing by. It’s a cop down. But I’ll let you out. I don’t want you to be there. You’re not even armed.”
Hailey unbuckled her seat belt.
“Hey! I’m doing eighty miles an hour! Put your belt back on!” He shouted it across the three feet between them. Ignoring him, Hailey bent over the front seat and reached into the back of the car, and leaning lower, unzipped her roller board.
Fincher took a sharp right turn and Hailey slid backward, her head nearly slamming into the back seat. Reaching deep into her bag, between layers of folded clothes, she yanked out a single item. Not bothering to re-zip the bag, she turned face forward and belted herself back into the passenger’s seat. Finch spotted her black Lycra shoulder holster, special-made for Hailey, clenched in her hand.
“Hailey, you can’t go unarmed. You don’t have a gun for that, do you?”
“I know you, Fincher. You’re packing hip, shoulder, and ankle. So don’t waste time.”
Keeping one hand firmly on the wheel, he reached down to his ankle and with one quick snap of Velcro, handed her a .38.
“You still hate guns, Hailey?”
“I don’t know what you mean by that.” Hailey tensed, keeping her eyes fixed on the road ahead.
“Every time you see a gun, you think about Will. Just like in the courtroom. The sight of a gun still makes you sick . . . right? I bet you haven’t dated one guy more than five times up in Manhattan. Have you? I knew moving to New York and getting out of the business wouldn’t change anything. Different place, same Hailey Dean . . .”
She didn’t answer, raising her window, looking out as the houses passed, watching street signs knowing Randolph would pop up at any minute.
“This is it. 3443 Randolph.”
He was right. Hailey clicked the safety belt and, bending forward at the waist, slipped on the holster made especially for her. Adjusting it over and around quickly, sliding the .38 into place, Hailey unlocked the car door and stepped out into waves of heat.
CHAPTER SIX
Hailey felt the old, odd energy in her right hand . . . her gun hand. It felt like a snake inside her was coiled and ready to strike.
Where was the dead body?
Passing a WSAV news crew pressing a microphone toward a redhead dressed in spandex, Finch and Hailey walked steadily up the driveway. They found a lone officer bent down on his knees, inspecting two legs protruding from underneath the garage door. For one bizarre moment, Hailey felt like Dorothy inspecting an anonymous set of legs so totally out of place, neatly peeking out.
Pushing all thoughts of Oz aside, she stepped forward. This was no movie in Technicolor. This was the real thing, a dead body. And that body was decomposing literally by the minute in the Savannah heat.
The officer walked over to the corner of the door and started fiddling with a handle. Apparently, nothing was budging.
“Hi, officer.” Finch held out his right hand to one of the officers standing on the driveway. “I’m Garland Fincher from the Fulton District Attorney’s Office here for the Todd Adams trial. We were driving in from the airport and we heard the call. Came to see if you needed any help.”
Finch spotted the other cop glance at Hailey. “And this is a former ADA, Hailey Dean.”
But the three turned quickly at the sound of another two squad cars careening into the front yard, one after the next. Hailey actually thought for a moment they’d have a pileup right there on the front lawn.
A third car, unmarked but also sporting a quickly rotating blue light popped onto the front dash, arrived just behind them. Plainclothes detectives emerged.
“Hi, everybody.” One of the sheriffs approached and said it calmly, like he was reading a quasi-interesting story out of the Savannah paper over the breakfast table. He didn’t seem to be the least bit ruffled by the pair of human legs on the paved driveway two feet from his own.
“You guys don’t seem in too much of a hurry to get him out from under there.” Fincher said it in a casual way, not at all accusatory.
“Well. He’s dead. Plain and simple. No two ways about it. First thing I did after securing the scene was feel his ankle. Cold as a brick. So, no rush. No rush at all. Plus, I can’t get the darn door up. Probably need some sort of a tool. Maybe if I jam some hedge clippers in the lift, that’ll do it.” This guy made Hailey think of Barney Fife. And not in a good way.
Hailey stepped back off the neat cement drive and onto the manicured grass, perfectly edged. She looked not down at the pair of legs, but higher up the garage door.
“Hey, guys. What’s this?” Hailey stepped over the legs, careful to avoid the pool of blood in which they were lying, and pointed to a hole in the garage door.
“I don’t know. Oh yeah, Trimble’s the name.” Barney Fife stuck out his right hand to Fincher first, then Hailey.
“Well, don’t get the hedge clippers just yet. You may not
need them. I don’t have a garage door where I live, but I think this is one of those emergency-release mechanisms.”
“Huh? I never heard of that.” Trimble looked stumped. Fincher was quiet, likely because he hadn’t either, but didn’t want to admit it to Hailey.
“I don’t get it. What’s your point? What does it mean to us?” Trimble seemed good-natured, but obviously felt Hailey’s observation was a waste of time.
“A lot of people get them for these door openers just in case the electricity goes out, so they’ll always be able to get in or out of the garage. It’s kind of a lock you install directly onto the door.” Hailey pointed up as she talked.
“Maybe I’m crazy, but I still don’t get it. This baby’s as tight as a drum.” Trimble stared up at the garage door.
“If we can make it work . . . I think the way it functions is that a cable, a cord, is attached to the door opener emergency-release lever, and when you unlock this thing, you can pull the cable and it releases the drivetrain belt.”
“I’m game.” Trimble looked at Fincher, clearly expecting him and Hailey to give it a try. He looked over at the EMTs. “Hey guys, no need for a saw, I got it all figured out. No rush. It’s Alton Turner and he’s DOA anyway.”
Trimble obviously wasn’t the oversensitive type.
None of the cops made a move, so Fincher stepped up. “OK. Here we go.” Picking up one of the bricks edging the driveway, he gave a mighty heave and knocked the lock off the door. Hailey was right. When Finch grabbed the lock mechanism itself and pulled, the door released.
And there he was, lying there . . . Alton Turner . . . the other half, finally revealed. After an initial, instinctive recoil upon seeing a dead human body, the detectives immediately started to circle it, staying a guarded few feet away. A camera started flashing.
A black standard-issue Saturn pulled into the driveway. When the driver’s door opened, out stepped what was obviously an undercover detective. He was definitely a cop. No question about it. He had that look, easily identifiable by fellow cops and, ironically, criminals alike. To a trained eye, undercover cops stood out. The younger officers were buff and muscled from beating the streets day and night. The older cops were pale and soft, parked at desk jobs and counting the days until retirement.